“Attention!”
The pantomime had ended. Leilah leaned forward. Of Barouffski she could see now but the back of his head, the back of his tight-fitting coat. But d’Arcy, who stood sideways, his heels drawn together, might have been posing for a photograph.
The sky was leaden. The shrubbery resembled it. From behind an urn a cat appeared. It meowed and vanished. For a moment more there was silence.
The man with the umbrella looked from d’Arcy to Barouffski.
“Messieurs, after I give the command Fire, I will count from one to ten, leaving between each number an interval of ten seconds. It is unnecessary, but it is my duty to add, that to fire before I have given the word, or after I have counted ten, constitutes attempted assassination and, should death ensue, murder.”
He paused, looked at his watch, looked at d’Arcy, again at Barouffski.
“Fire!”
Simultaneously the two men raised and extended their right arms, d’Arcy in such a manner that the forearm and butt of the pistol masked the abnormal beauty of his face. The hand was bare, but the left, which hung at his side, was gloved.
“One! Two! Three!”