“Ah, then, there is a project?”
“Yes. You have stepped in between me and the realization of my dearest wish, of my main object in life. You are, I take it, a soldier and a gentleman. There is a way by which men of honor settle these disputes—I invite you to follow it.”
The fantastic proposal was made with an air of dignity that robbed it of any inherent ludicrousness. Greatly as he despised this man, Medenham could not wholly conceal the wonder that leaped to his eyes.
“Are you suggesting that we should fight a duel?” he asked, smiling with incredulity, yet constrained to believe that Marigny was really speaking in cold blood.
“Yes—oh, yes. A duel—no make-believe!”
A curious change came into Marigny’s voice at that instant. He seemed to bark each staccato phrase; a vindictive fire gleamed in his black eyes, and the olive tint showed beneath the pink and white of his skin.
Medenham laughed, almost good-humoredly.
“The notion is worthy of you,” he said. “I might have expected it, but I fancied you were more sensible. Surely you know enough of my world to realize that such a thing is impossible.”
“It must be made possible,” said Marigny gravely.
“It cannot—I refuse.”