"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "there is blood upon your cuff."
Alan looked down hastily. It was true enough: his white cuff was stained with red.
"You have killed him!" she said. "You have murdered him, you wretch, you murderer——"
"Not at all," said Walcott with the greatest composure. "Upon my word, I rather wish I had. I think he deserved it. He has got off very easily."
"You had a meeting?" his wife shrieked, her eyes beginning to flash with rage.
"We had a meeting. It was for that purpose that I left for two hours this morning. You don't suppose that I should let myself be struck in the face without demanding satisfaction? I have enough French blood in my veins to think it a very natural way of settling such a quarrel——"
"Was he hurt?" she asked, without waiting for him to finish.
"Very slightly. A sword-cut on the shoulder. The seconds interposed, or we should have gone on——"
"I have no doubt you wanted to kill him! I shall denounce you to the police!"
"As you please" said her husband indifferently, taking up his paper. "But M. de Hauteville has retired from the scene: he had a carriage waiting, and has crossed the frontier by this time. I assure you he is perfectly safe Switzerland."