"I am ready."
They were facing each other—Morice Conyers grim and pale, yet with eyes stern of purpose and undaunted enough, though he knew death looked him in the face.
Denningham was white too, but his blue eyes were scornful, and his thin lips twisted in a cold smile.
He never doubted for a second the issue of that duel.
And his pistol was levelled point-blank at the other's heart.
It was by far the simplest method of dealing with a crazy fool.
Two shots rang out in the silent wood. A dull thud, a faint cracking of dried twigs, as a heavy body fell backward; then silence again.
Lord Denningham was carefully replacing a smoking pistol within its case, wiping it first with his silk handkerchief.
Inwardly he was experiencing that acute satisfaction of having fulfilled his purpose neatly and expeditiously.
A pistol was far more satisfactory in every way than a sword. The latter bungled at times, the former, never.