“Why, your honor, there have been a row on the heights back there, among some gents, and one of um have been shot and carried to the hotel down yonder in the town; and t’other one is took and locked up,” answered one of the laborers, with the usual mixture of truth and falsehood.
“Which was shot?” inquired the detective.
“Why, that I can’t say; but any ways it was one of um as was shot and brought home on a door, and t’other one was took and locked up.”
“Was the man who was shot killed?” anxiously inquired General Lyon.
“Well, your honor, ‘when the brains is out the man is dead,’” replied the peasant, unconsciously quoting Shakespeare.
General Lyon sank back in his chair with a deep groan. One of the duelists was killed. Whether it was Prince Ernest or Alexander Lyon, whether his nephew was the murderer or the murdered man, the event was fatal.
“Drive as rapidly as possible back to the hotel,” said the detective on the box to the driver by his side.
And they were whirled swiftly as horses could go, to the St. Aubins hotel.
There all was bustle. A duel was not such a common event as to be passed over lightly.
General Lyon sprang out of his cab with almost the agility of youth, and hurried into the office to make inquiries of the clerk.