And by the hearth the gloom deepened into darkness.
The breathing of the antagonists was getting more laboured now. But the eyes were hard and unflinching as ever beneath sweating brows.
To and fro, to and fro, till they were shadows amongst shadows.
And then, whilst victory hung in the balance, and Death stood back to await his victim, the door opened.
It was Denningham who faced it—Denningham who, for the briefest second, looked up and saw a figure standing there, watching the scene with curious, wondering eyes.
A brief second and yet it was enough.
A look of horror swept over the mocking face, which became ghastly in its pallor. With a scream of fear, he lurched forward, almost falling upon Michael Berrington's sword.
"Conyers! My God! Conyers!" he sobbed, sinking to the ground—and never spoke again.
It had all been the work of an instant, too brief for realization. No time for Michael, indeed, to have lowered his sword before that fatal stagger.
And the duel was over.