{"Yes."
"One———Two———Three."———He dropped the handkerchief, and both gentlemen fired simultaneously. Mr. Neville's hat spun into the air; Griffith stood untouched.
The bullet had passed through Neville's hat, and had actually cut a lane through his magnificent hair.
The seconds now consulted, and it was intimated to Griffith that a word of apology would be accepted by his antagonist.
Griffith declined to utter a syllable of apology.
Two more pistols were given the men.
"Aim lower," said Rickards.
"I mean to," said Griffith.
The seconds withdrew, and the men eyed each other: Griffith dogged and pale, as before, Neville not nearly so self-assured; Griffith's bullet, in grazing him, had produced the effect of a sharp, cold, current of air no wider than a knife. It was like death's icy forefinger laid on his head, to mark him for the next shot; as men mark a tree; then come again and fell it.
"One——two——three!"