A stout individual dressed in discreet black pushed his way through the knot of men in the doorway. “What’s this, gentlemen?” he said. “Who fired that shot?”
Vidal raised his brows. “You interrupt, Timothy. I fired that shot.”
The stout man looked aghast. “My lord, my lord, what wild work is this? You’ll ruin me, my lord!” He saw the case containing the pistols and made a pounce for them. My lord’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. Timothy met his eyes for a moment, and said distressfully: “My lord, I beg of you — my lord, don’t do it here!”
He was thrust back. “Damn you, stop whining!” Vidal sprang up, overturning his chair. “Am I to sit here till noon while Mr. Quarles makes up his mind? Name your friends!”
Quarles rolled a hot eye round the circle. No one came forward. “I’ll act for myself since you’re all so shy,” he sneered.
Mr. Comyn, his sedateness quite unimpaired, rose from his seat. “Since it’s my Lord Vidal’s honour that is inquestion it will be wise to have a gentleman to act for you, sir,” he said.
“To hell with the lot of you!” swore Quarles. “I’ll act for myself.”
“Your pardon, sir,” returned Mr. Comyn smoothly, “but I think you must see that if you doubt his lordship’s good faith, your seconds should carefully examine these pistols, which I apprehend are his lordship’s own. In short, I offer myself at your disposal.”
“Obliged to you,” growled Quarles.
Vidal was leaning on a chair back. “That’s a mighty long speech,” he remarked, with just that faint suggestion of slurring his words together. “Is it to insult me, or not?”