“They come out of my coach,” replied Vidal. He looked at the clock. “It waits. Choose, you!”
“I’m for you!” Mr. Quarles declared. He rolled an eye at Captain Wraxall. “Sir, will you act for me?”
“Act for you?” exploded the Captain. “I’ll have nothing to do with the business. My lord, you’re in no fit case to fight, and I recommend you to go home and let your seconds arrange the matter more seemly,”
Vidal laughed. “Not fit? By God, that’s rich, Wraxall. You don’t know me very well, do you?”
“I am happy to say I do not, sir!” said the Captain stiffly.
“Watch then!” My lord drew a small gold-mounted pistol from his pocket. He levelled it, still lounging in his chair, and fired before any could stop him. There was a loud report, and the smash of glass as the bullet shattered the big mirror at the end of the room.
“What in hell’s name — ?” began Wraxall furiously, and broke off, staring inthe direction of my lord’s pointing finger. One of a cluster of three candles was no longer burning. The voice of Mr. Comyn said calmly: “Quite remarkable shooting — under the circumstances.”
Lord Rupert, forgetting larger issues, called out: “Outed it, begad, and not touched the wax! Good lad!”
The explosion brought those still remaining in the other rooms hurrying to the scene. Vidal paid no heed. “Don’t know me very well, do you?” he repeated, and laughed again.
Cholmondley, casting a glance of rebuke at Rupert, admonished Mr. Quarles once more. “Go home and sleep on it, Quarles. If you want to fight, fight sober. You’re no match for Vidal else.”