It had been an hour or more since he had parted from the girl who had just promised to be his bride. The lights of the grand ballroom were out, and the greater portion of the great hotel was wrapped in gloom, with but here and there the twinkling light in the windows of some belated guest, and these, too, were rapidly disappearing, leaving the world to darkness and itself.
It was the hour when the sports of Newport banded together to smoke their cigars and talk over their wine, and their revelry usually lasted far into the wee sma’ hours. To-night these young men seemed bent upon having a royal good time together, in celebration of their last night at the famous resort.
Half a score of friends were with Challoner. He was always the ringleader among his companions. Just now all seemed highly amused at some anecdote he was relating. His unsteady steps showed John Dinsmore that he was under the influence of wine. He arose and turned away with a sigh, anxious to get out of sight of the sneering, handsome face of his rival and away from the sound of his voice.
At that instant the sound of Miss Trevalyn’s name on his rival’s lips caught and held his attention. Raymond Challoner was boasting of his conquest over the heart of the belle and beauty of the season. John Dinsmore was rooted to the spot with horror to hear him discuss in the next breath the sweetness of the betrothal kiss he had received from the peerless Queenie.
A general laugh followed and remarks which made the blood boil in John Dinsmore’s veins. He was fairly speechless from rage.
“And when do you intend to wed the beautiful Queenie?” asked a dozen or more rollicking voices.
“A month or two later, provided I do not see some bewitching little fairy in the meantime who will suit me better. I——”
The sentence was never finished. With a leap, John Dinsmore was before him, with a face so ghastly with wrath that those who saw it were stricken dumb.
“Take that! for maligning a lady, you dastardly scoundrel!” cried John, in a sonorous voice ringing with passion. And as he uttered the words out flew his strong right arm with the force of a sledge hammer, and in an instant Raymond Challoner was measuring his length before him on the porch.
“So it is you, the unsuccessful wooer, who champions Miss Trevalyn’s cause, is it? Well that is indeed rich,” he cried, white to the lips, adding: “I am not so good with my fists as you seem to be; however, I insist upon wiping out this insult with your blood or mine, John Dinsmore, ere another day dawns. Here and now I challenge you to a duel on the beach, within an hour’s time. I will teach you then that it is folly to interfere in another man’s affairs.”