“Not worse, Bel! Hardly worse! Plaguey unfortunate happening.”
Mr Belfort laid an impressive finger on Prudence’s shoulder. “He’s offered us a damned slight, Peter. It can’t be swallowed. Take my word for it, there can be no meeting.”
“Why, Charles, you mystify me! Let me know what this slight is I beg of you.”
“He has fought another man this morning,” said Mr Belfort, and stood back to observe the effect of this terrific pronouncement.
Prudence was all honest incredulity. “You tell me he has met some one else in a duel?” she cried. It seemed to be a positive dispensation of a kindly Providence, but it would not do to let the gentleman suspect she felt this. She affected anger. “He sets me aside, you would tell me! It’s for some later quarrel? You call it a slight! You’re moderate, Charles!”
“Devilish irregular,” said Mr Devereux. “I was monstrous shocked when I heard of it, give you my word. They say there’s a tendon cut in his sword arm that won’t heal this many a day. Quite impossible to meet him.”
“But apart from that, Dev — apart from that, mind you, I would not have our man swallow such a cursed piece of rudeness,” Mr Belfort reminded him. “Our quarrel came first, demm it!” A frown marred the cherubic look in his face. “And what’s more, Dev, Fanshawe knew it!”
“Fanshawe!” the exclamation broke from Prudence, who stood staring.
“Fanshawe himself,” nodded Belfort. “And I saw him this morning, and somehow or other the thing slipped out, and I told him you were to meet Rensley.”
“But — you say Fanshawe is the man who fought Rensley?”