The doctor turned his back, and the seconds retreated to a distance of eight paces. Peregrine was conscious of a sharp wind, ruffling his yellow locks: he fixed his eyes on Farnaby, trying to decide on some object on his dress to choose as his mark.
Mr. Fitzjohn was holding up a handkerchief; it fluttered in the wind, a splash of white against a background of grey.
Then, before the word could be given, an interruption took place. A third coach, this time a heavy, lumbering affair, had driven up, and several men now jumped down from it, and came running towards the duellists, shouting: “In the name of the Law! Hold!”
Peregrine jerked his head round, heard a stifled oath from Farnaby, and the next minute was in the grip of a burly officer. “I arrest you in the name of the Law!” puffed this individual. “Attempt to break the peace! I shall have to take you before a magistrate.”
Mr. Fitzjohn, who admitted afterwards that he had never been so glad to see a constable before, heaved one long sigh of relief, and said: “Oh, very well! Nothing for it, Perry; you had better put your coat on again.”
Mr. Farnaby, in the grip of a second constable, showed a disposition to resist. “Who set you on?” he demanded.
“Acting on information received,” was the curt reply. “Now give me that pistol, sir! It ain’t no use resisting.”
An unwelcome suspicion crossed Peregrine’s mind. He said quickly: “Do you know who lodged the information?”
“No, nor it ain’t my business,” answered the constable. “You put on your coat, sir, and come with us.”
Mr. Fitzjohn went to lend Peregrine a hand. “Do you suspect someone?” he asked in an under-voice.