“Ah, here it is!” I said, going back as to my chair.
Next instant, by a quick movement, I had turned and flung aside the curtain, my revolver covering the place where I knew the intruder must be.
“Count Furello!” I cried. “Come out and show yourself, you cowardly villain!”
I do not know why my revolver hung fire, for I had resolved to shoot him on sight. But the moment’s hesitation as I brought the Count—it was he—to view, showed him to me standing against the window with dropped hands, and none of the expected signs of attack. I could not shoot, even him, like that; if only he had made the slightest aggressive movement I would not have hesitated. As it was I stayed looking at him. He stood there quite motionless, his arms by his side, and, so far as I could see, with no weapon in his hand. His face looked absolutely white, the mouth was drawn behind the bristling moustache into the suggestion of an ugly grin, not reflected in the eyes, which glittered with repressed viciousness.
I think we must have stared at one another for some seconds before I spoke.
“What are you doing here, Count?”
The grin deepened. “A scarcely necessary question. You are going to shoot. Please don’t delay. I am ready to pay the penalty of my rashness and your superior—luck.”
The hatred with which he spoke the last words was indescribable.
“You will have to pay the penalty,” I said, trying to bring myself to press the trigger. His face was calm now except for the gleam of desperation in his eyes. My better judgment told me to send a bullet through that scoundrel’s heart, yet I paused, perhaps in the very certainty that the heart was covered by my pistol.
“We are rivals, it seems,” Furello said calmly. “May we not settle our differences in the approved fashion?”