Challoner’s second conferred with Ballou for a moment, then they announced that all was in readiness.
A deathlike silence ensued, broken only by the sobbing of the wind and the dash of the waves, beating a solemn requiem upon the shore. Slowly the command was given:
“One—two—three—fire!”
Simultaneously the report of the two pistol shots rang out upon the midnight air, followed instantly by the sound of a body falling heavily upon the sands.
John Dinsmore had fallen upon his face, the lifeblood from a wound in his breast coloring the white beach crimson about him.
In a trice his two friends were bending over him, beside the doctor, who was making a rapid examination to find out the extent of the wounded man’s injuries; believing, however, that Raymond Challoner’s opponent was beyond all human aid. He had figured at several of these affairs of honor in which Challoner had been engaged, and had never yet known him to fail to strike the heart at which he aimed.
“He brought it on himself,” said Challoner, addressing his second. “He would have it!” and he turned away upon his heel with a mocking sneer curling his cynical lips. Tossing his weapon to his second, he nonchalantly resumed his hat and coat, and walked coolly away toward the hotel, not deigning to cast one glance backward, even to take the trouble to inquire whether his victim was alive, or dead.
Both of the fallen man’s friends heard him remark, as a parting shot:
“Such is the fate of any one who attempts to meddle in my affairs.”
“Your friend is not dead,” said the doctor, hastily, anxious to attract their attention from Challoner, fearing perhaps a double or a triple duel might result from this affair.