Mr Puckleton was the first of his seconds to arrive in the morning, and while Crosby dressed he sat astride a chair sucking the knob of his tall cane and regarding his friend with a melancholy and not unadmiring eye.
“Forde’s bringing the weapons,” he said. “How do you feel, Crosby?”
There was an odd sensation in the pit of Mr Drelincourt’s stomach, but he replied: “Oh, never better! Never better, I assure you.”
“For myself,” said Mr Puckleton, “I shall leave it all to Forde. To tell you the truth, Crosby, I’ve never acted for a man before. Wouldn’t do it for anyone but you. I can’t stand the sight of blood, you know. But I have my vinaigrette with me.”
Then Captain Forde arrived with a long flat case under his arm. Lord Cheston, he said, had engaged to bring a doctor with him, and Crosby had better make haste, for it was time they were starting.
The morning air struck a chill into Mr Drelincourt’s bones; he huddled himself into his greatcoat and sat in a corner of the coach listening to the macabre conversation of his two companions. Not that either the Captain or Mr Puckleton talked about the duel; in fact, they chatted on the most mild subjects such as the beauty of the day, the quietness of the streets, and the Duchess of Devonshire’s al fresco party. Mr Drelincourt found himself hating them for their apparent callousness, yet when the Captain did mention the duel, reminding him to meet so dashing a fighter as the Viscount with steadiness and caution, he turned a sickly hue and did not answer.
Arrived at Barn Elms they drew up at an inn adjacent to the meeting place, and there the Captain discovered that his watch was considerably in advance of the correct time. Casting a knowing glance at his pallid principal, he then made his suggestion they should drink a glass of cognac, for, said he in Mr Puckleton’s ear: “We’ll never get our man on the ground by the looks of it.”
The brandy did little to restore Mr Drelincourt’s failing spirits, but he drank it, and with an assumption of nonchalance accompanied his seconds out of the back of the inn and across a field to the ground, which was pleasantly situated in a sort of spinney. Captain Forde said that he could not have a better place for fighting. “Upon my word, I envy you, Crosby!” he said heartily.
After that they walked back to the inn, to find that a second coach had driven up, containing Lord Cheston and a neat little man in black who clasped a case of instruments, and bowed very deeply to everybody. At first he mistook Captain Forde for Mr Drelincourt, but this was soon put right, and he bowed again to Crosby and begged pardon.
“Let me assure you, sir, that if it should chance that you are to be my patient you need have no alarms, none at all. A clean sword wound is a very different affair from a bullet wound, oh, very different!”