“Pardon, mein Herr,” he interrupted with a formality, brusque in its uncertain touch, “if I decline to discuss the matter with you.”
I bowed. “You have every right to do so.”
“We will stand no shuffling,” he cried. “I swear I will not eat my breakfast till the affair has come off. If Herr von Lindheim is ill, then Herr Szalay must find another friend, or take the consequences.”
“No doubt,” I replied, “if Von Lindheim’s illness continues, Herr Szalay will find another friend. But you can hardly expect him to do so by breakfast time.”
He twirled his silly little moustache, and put on one of the most stupidly offensive looks it has ever been my fortune to see on a human countenance. “You, sir,” he said blusteringly, “you seem to be at pains to champion Herr Szalay; what is there to prevent your acting as his friend?”
“Only the fact that he has not honoured me by asking me to do so.”
“It is absurd, this attempt to play fast and loose,” he spluttered. “We shall not permit it, that I swear. I am surprised that any one should counsel delay. Delay in an affair of this sort, sir, we hold as a coward’s word. And if you have any regard for your friend’s honour you will see that this business is settled at once. I shall not go to bed to-night, but shall expect to receive Herr Szalay’s friend. That is my last word; I have a duty to perform. I have the honour, sir. Good evening.”
He made me a bow which was meant, no doubt, to be the quintessence of military dignity, and clattered from the room. I let him go, seeing that an appeal to common sense was worse than hopeless. Then I went up, and gave the two men an account of my interview.
“Clearly,” Lindheim said, “even if there had ever been a doubt about it, this ridiculous duel is simply a trick of the Jaguar’s to get rid of our friend.”
“I fear that is certain,” I assented.