The message of the target was plain, and Blanche needed no second glance. She flung herself at her lover’s feet, and besought him to spare the life of Harrington May.
“It—it wasn’t all his fault,” she sobbed. “I did egg him on a bit, just—just to stir you up.”
For a moment he was silent, and his face was ominously stern.
“You achieved your object,” he replied at last. “We must talk more of this later, Blanche. For the rest, you need not be alarmed. I shall not kill this man, and you are free to take what is left of him, when I have finished.” Thrusting her aside, he picked up the case of pistols and hurried away.
“Oh, God!” cried Blanche, and there was admiration as well as fear in her voice.
It was rather wonderful that he would risk death for her sake—but of course it must not happen. She must go at once and warn Harrington May of the danger. Then came the thought, “Suppose he, too, insists on fighting?” Her eyes glittered. This drama that centred about her was fantastic, thrilling. If he, too, were determined to enter the lists, where would her choice lie?
The corridors were deserted, for the company had dressed hurriedly and were well away towards the sheltering bushes of Jesmond Dene. As she hastened towards May’s room she could hear Eliphalet Cardomay’s fly rattling over the cobbles of the street below.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed May. “Not gone to the party? Better come in my cab. Pity to miss the fun.”
“It isn’t fun,” she cried. “He’s in deadly, awful earnest. He’s going to shoot you.”
The leading man licked his lips and smiled queerly.