“Bang up to the mark,” Mr. Fitzjohn assured him. He ran an eye over Peregrine’s person, and seemed satisfied. “Get in, Perry. Did you sleep well?”
“Sleep! Lord, yes! Never stirred till my man roused me this morning!” replied Peregrine, taking his place in the coach.
“Damme, you might be an old hand!” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn approvingly. “Is this your first meeting, or have you been out before?”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact, it is my first,” confessed Peregrine. “But not, I hope, my last.”
“No fear of that,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, rather too heartily. He began to prod the opposite seat with the tip of his walking-cane. “You don’t want to kill him, and I can’t for the life of me see why he should want to kill you. At the same time. Perry, it don’t do to take chances, and you’ll fire the moment the word’s given, do you see? You’ve shot at Manton’s, haven’t you? Well, you know how to come up quick on to the mark, and all you have to do is to fancy yourself at the Gallery, firing at a wafer. There’s no difference.”
Peregrine withdrew his gaze from the passing houses and gave his friend a long clear look. “Is there no difference?” he asked.
Mr. Fitzjohn met his eyes for a moment, and then studied the head of his cane. “Yes, there is a difference,” he said. “But my father once told me that the secret of a good duellist is to imagine that there is none.”
Peregrine nodded and picked up the flat case that lay on the seat opposite and opened it. A pair of plain duelling pistols lay in it.
“You can handle ’em; they’re not loaded,” said Mr. Fitzjohn.
Peregrine lifted one from its bed, weighed it in his hand, and tested the pull. Then he laid it down, again and shut the case. “Nicely balanced,” he remarked.