St. George turned to the young doctor. His face was calm and thoughtful, and he seemed to realize fully the gravity of the situation.
“It's no use, Teackle,” St. George said with an expressive lift of his fingers. “I have done everything a man could, but there is only one way out of it. I have tried my best to save Kate from every unhappiness to-night, but this is something much more important than woman's tears, and that is her lover's honor.”
“You mean to tell me, Uncle George, that you can't stop this!” Teackle whispered with some heat, his eyes strained, his lips twitching. Here he faced Harry. “You sha'n't go on with this affair, I tell you, Harry. What will Kate say? Do you think she wants you murdered for a foolish thing like this!—and that's about what will happen.”
The boy made no reply, except to shake his head. He knew what Kate would say—knew what she would do, and knew what she would command him to do, could she have heard Willits's continued insults in this very room but a moment before while St. George was trying to make him apologize to his host and so end the disgraceful incident.
“Then I'll go and bring in the colonel and see what he can do!” burst out Teackle, starting for the door. “It's an outrage that—”
“You'll stay here, Teackle,” commanded St. George—“right where you stand! This is no place for a father. Harry is of age.”
“But what an ending to a night like this!”
“I know it—horrible!—frightful!—but I would rather see the boy lying dead at my feet than not defend the woman he loves.” This came in a decisive tone, as if he had long since made up his mind to this phase of the situation.
“But Langdon is Harry's guest,” Teackle pleaded, dropping his voice still lower to escape being heard by the group at the opposite end of the room—“and he is still under his roof. It is never done—it is against the code. Besides”—and his voice became a whisper—“Harry never levelled a pistol at a man in his life, and this is not Langdon's first meeting. We can fix it in the morning. I tell you we must fix it.”
Harry, who had been listening quietly, reached across the table, picked up the case of pistols, handed it to Gilbert, whom he had chosen as his second, and in a calm, clear, staccato tone—each word a bullet rammed home—said: