“In your case, the thing’s exceedingly simple. This Mr or Captain Maynard, as he’s called, insulted you very grossly. I hear it’s the talk of the hotel. You must call upon him to go out, or apologise.”
“Aw, sawtingly. I shall do that. Wite faw me, and I shall sign.”
“Hadn’t you better write yourself? The challenge should be in your own hand. I am only the bearer of it.”
“Twue—twue! Confound this dwink. It makes one obwivious of everything. Of cawse I should wite it.”
Sitting down before the table, with a hand that showed no trembling, Mr Swinton wrote:
“Sir—Referring to our interview of last night, I demand from you the satisfaction due to a gentleman, whose honour you have outraged. That satisfaction must be either a meeting, or an ample apology. I leave you to take your choice. My friend, Mr Louis Lucas, will await your answer.
“Richard Swinton.”
“Will that do, think you?” asked the ex-guardsman, handing the sheet to his second.
“The very thing! Short, if not sweet. I like it all the better without the ‘obedient servant.’ It reads more defiant, and will be more likely to extract the apology. Where am I to take it? You have his card, if I mistake not. Does it tell the number of his room?”
“Twue—twue! I have his cawd. We shall see.”
Taking up his coat from the floor, where he had flung it; Swinton fished out the card. There was no number, only the name.