“Such, my lord, is not at the moment my intention,” replied Mr. Comyn.
The Marquis laughed. “Didn’t know you had it in you. You’re devilish correct, ain’t you?”
“I trust I am conversant with the rules governing such affairs as these, my lord. Will you name your friends?”
The Marquis was still looking at him with an amused and not unkindly eye. “Charles, you might act for me,” he said, without turning his head.
Mr. Fox arose, sighing. “Oh, very well, Dominic, if you mustbehave sodamned irregularly.” He went apart with Mr. Comyn, and they inspected the weapons with due solemnity, and pronounced them identical.
Lord Rupert pushed his way unceremoniously to his nephew’s side. “Go put your head in a bucket of water, Vidal!” he said. “Stap me if I ever heard the like of you to-night! Mind you, I don’t say the fellow don’t deserve to have a hole in him, but do the thing decently, my boy, that’s all I ask!” He broke off to hurl somewhat conflicting advice to Captain Wraxall. “Move those candles a shade to the left, Wraxall. Must have the light fair to both.”
The table was pushed back. Mr. Fox and Mr. Comyn were measuring the paces.
The pistols were presented. My lord took his in what looked to be an alarmingly slack hold. Apparently his uncle did not think so, for he said urgently: “Don’t kill him, Dominic!”
The seconds stepped back, the word was given. My lord’s pistol hand jerked up swiftly; there was a flash and a report, followed almost instantly by an answering shot. Mr. Quarles’s bullet buried itself in the wall beyond my lord, and Mr. Quarles pitched forward on to his face.
The Marquis tossed his pistol to Mr. Fox. “Give ’em to my man, Charles,” he said, and turned away to pick up his snuff-box, and handkerchief.