“Where?—when?—how?” muttered the Pole, in suppressed passion.
“I leave all at your disposal,” said Massingbred, smiling at the other's effort to control his rage.
“At Versailles,—to-morrow morning,—pistols.”
Massingbred bowed, and turned away. At the same instant the waiter entered to say that the house must be cleared at once, or all within it consent to remain close prisoners.
“Come along, Martin,” said Massingbred, taking his arm. “I shall want you to do me a favor. Let us make our escape by the Rue de Grenelle, and I 'll engage to pilot you safely to your own quarters.”
“Has anything passed between you and Czernavitz?” asked Martin, as they gained the street.
“A slight exchange of civilities which requires an exchange of shots,” said Jack, calmly.
“By George! I 'm sorry for it. He can hit a franc-piece at thirty paces.”
“So can I, Martin; and, what's more, Anatole knows it. He's as brave as a lion, and it is my confounded skill has pushed him on to this provocation.”
“He 'll shoot you,” muttered Martin, in a half revery.