“As you please. We will fire at the word ‘Three.’” Both men draw their revolvers.
“One moment,” interrupts Felton. “In the event of a second fire?”
“There will be no second fire,” is the grim rejoinder. “I shall kill you with the first.”
“And I will endeavor not to waste mine. Well, sir, I am waiting.”
“One!” Two arms are raised, and not a tremor in either.
“Two!” The pistols click.
The word “Three” is trembling on Van Zandt’s lips, when a shot rings out from the thicket. Felton clasps his hand to his abdomen, with an exclamation of pain, sways a moment and pitches headlong to the earth.
The bushes part and a woman, heavily veiled, steps forth, smoking pistol in hand and walks to where Felton lies.
She looks upon the body for a moment in silence, and hisses:
“You cowardly hound! Your end is fitting!” Then, throwing back her veil, she reveals the face of Isabel Harding.