"Come, then," observed his smiling adversary, helping himself to a pinch of snuff with a languid air. "If you _will_ have it so, your forest lair will be the best scene for your lesson. You will be more at home there; though, if you prefer it, nearer to your Manor, and within call of your servants----."

"I am ready," broke in Morice, sternly. "Let it be where you will, and with what weapons you will, so it be at once."

Lord Denningham did not hesitate.

"The forest, by all means, then," he yawned. "and pistols will be more appropriate than swords. Stap me! It's the first time I'll have been owl-shooting since I was a boy."

Morice did not reply, though he strode quickly enough on the heels of the other as he led the way down the path, through the wicket, and across the heather-crowned strip of moorland towards the outskirts of the forest.

The cool breeze blowing in his face seemed to restore the young man to his senses. He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.

Honour demanded it now.

But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of Carlton House gossip--tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.

"You are going to death, you are going to death," moaned the autumn wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cecile crying its sad farewell.

Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling coward.

A man! Yes, a man whom Cecile, in years to come, might think of not wholly in shame, but with a great pity, as of one who, after many sins, many failures, many mistakes, had tried to redeem the past and expiate his faults--for her sake. If only he could have sent a message!

But that, too, was impossible.

"I think, with your permission, we have gone far enough," observed Lord Denningham affably, as he halted near a small clearing in the wood.

Morice nodded.

He knew not if he had walked one mile or ten, so deep had been his reverie.

And now death stood at his side.

"It is a matter of regret that there is no time to procure seconds,"

smiled my lord, as he proceeded to divest himself of his coat and walk slowly across the clearing, carefully measuring his paces.

"But I do not think there will be any dispute--afterwards."

"No," replied Morice dully.

He understood the gist of the remark.

"The light might be worse," went on Denningham. "If we are careful where we stand,--so--there is too deep a shadow there. You have a good weapon, sir? If not, permit me to offer you the choice of mine."

He opened a leather case as he spoke, holding it towards Morice with a mocking bow.

A pair of gold-mounted pistols lay within.

But Morice shook his head.

"I thank you, my lord, but I prefer using my own," he replied shortly.

Lord Denningham raised his eyebrows.

"As you like. But you will surely remove your coat?"

"Thank you. No."

"Again--as you will, though I warn you those gilt b.u.t.tons of yours make a pretty target."

"I am ready."

They were facing each other--Morice Conyers grim and pale, yet with eyes stern of purpose and undaunted enough, though he knew death looked him in the face.

Denningham was white too, but his blue eyes were scornful, and his thin lips twisted in a cold smile.

He never doubted for a second the issue of that duel.

And his pistol was levelled point-blank at the other's heart.

It was by far the simplest method of dealing with a crazy fool.

Two shots rang out in the silent wood. A dull thud, a faint cracking of dried twigs, as a heavy body fell backward; then silence again.

Lord Denningham was carefully replacing a smoking pistol within its case, wiping it first with his silk handkerchief.

Inwardly he was experiencing that acute satisfaction of having fulfilled his purpose neatly and expeditiously.

A pistol was far more satisfactory in every way than a sword. The latter bungled at times, the former, never.

A wounded opponent would have been a demned difficulty.

Having put on his coat, and replaced his case of weapons, he approached the figure which lay, half hidden, amongst the dense undergrowth.

He would make certain of his work.

Faugh!

In haste he withdrew a searching hand. It was dripping with blood.

The contact was distasteful. It even went so far as to shake his nerves.

Wiping the red stains again and again on the gra.s.s, he rose to his feet.

He would wash his hand in the stream they had pa.s.sed on their way, and then no time must be lost in returning to the Manor and seeking Sir Stephen.

It must not be suspected that he had ever left the card-table that morning.

Steenie would be too fuddled to contradict if questions were asked.