The tick-ting ended abruptly. Dr. Laurier disengaged and lunged.
It was a full lunge, with stamp of foot on asphalt Martin saw the glint on the blade; his wrist snapped two inches in parry; the point scarcely rasping above a whisper, flicked past his right sleeve.
Hugh Laurier, slow and clumsy on return, stood wide open to a riposte that would have skewered him like a fowl. Movements are automatic, as in boxing; Martin checked his lunge in time, he felt the sweat start out on his body, and then stood staring at the Doctor, who had lowered his point
"Captain Drake."
Dr. Lauder's husky voice, impeded as though by too-large a tongue, faltered. "I supped!" he said with great earnestness. "I slipped!"
And he pointed to the gritty asphalt, where there was in fact a long gouge in grit from his right foot. The source of the accident was plain enough.
"But" said Dr. Laurier, fumbling at his pince-nez, "I should not have lunged even half so far. It is incredible. I can't think what made me do it If any of my patients had seen me tonight—" He ran a hand over his long, hollowed face, exploring it in wonder. Then he added, in appeal, just five words.
"My life is very dull," he said.
Martin, however, had become somewhat light-headed with wrath.
"It's quite all right," he said. "But, if you want to play like that I'll teach you how. Give me a hand, Ricky?" "What's up?"