"Ah! you will prove your innocence. Of course, of course. Do not lose your temper, I implore you, sir. Only you will not deny that your father's murder was a matter of no surprise to you. And as your father's heir----"

"You will answer me for your insults, my lord--and at once."

"I am always at the service of a gentleman. Would you prefer swords or pistols?"

"Swords. On guard, my lord."

"As hot at fighting as in love-making. Aha! this mongrel blood! Come, if you will have it so; but I shall teach you a lesson, my friend.

Afterwards----"

"Afterwards----?"

"I shall marry pretty Gabrielle Conyers and take to writing poems."

Mockery and laughter, meant to goad on his adversary to mad indiscretion.

But Michael Berrington was sobered already.

If he fell in the duel, Gabrielle would be at this man's mercy.

Fool that he had been to be so trapped!

But it was too late now, and there was murder sure enough in Denningham's half-veiled blue eyes.

A duel a l'outrance.

They did not speak after the swords had once crossed.

It was for a woman they fought, and each knew it, whatever the reason given.

A mad fight in a dying light, traitor shadows to baulk each thrust.

Yes, it would be more luck than skill which should proclaim the winner.

Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a smile to part stern lips. A cruel fight, with Death to guide the quick thrusts which each parried in turn.

To and fro, to and fro. As near the window as possible to gain the advantage of every glimmer of light.

And by the hearth the gloom deepened into darkness.

The breathing of the antagonists was getting more laboured now. But the eyes were hard and unflinching as ever beneath sweating brows.

To and fro, to and fro, till they were shadows amongst shadows.

And then, whilst victory hung in the balance, and Death stood back to await his victim, the door opened.

It was Denningham who faced it--Denningham who, for the briefest second, looked up and saw a figure standing there, watching the scene with curious, wondering eyes.

A brief second and yet it was enough.

A look of horror swept over the mocking face, which became ghastly in its pallor. With a scream of fear, he lurched forward, almost falling upon Michael Berrington's sword.

"Conyers! My G.o.d! Conyers!" he sobbed, sinking to the ground--and never spoke again.

It had all been the work of an instant, too brief for realization. No time for Michael, indeed, to have lowered his sword before that fatal stagger.

And the duel was over.

Not skill, not luck, but fate itself decided it, and Jack Denningham lay dead. It was a fate he had so often meted out to others, and the day of reckoning must come at last.

It had come now.

But it was no ghost who knelt by the dead man's side, looking down into the grey, horror-stricken face, but Morice Conyers in the flesh--a little paler, a little thinner, but himself for all that.

"He is dead," he said, looking up into Michael's face. "It was just that he should die. The fellow was rogue and villain."

"Rogue and villain I grant," replied Michael slowly, "but I would that the duel had ended before you entered."

Morice shrugged his shoulders.

"Witnesses are always useful," he said. "And there was no shadow of blame to you."

"Even so, I would----"

"Tush, tush! there's no time for discussing the nicety of a thrust now, as de Quernais will tell you."

"De Quernais?"

Michael looked with surprise towards the young Count, who stood beside his cousin.

It was bewildering to find these two together after the happenings of the past three days.

"What mean you?"' he asked briefly.

Morice Conyers straightened himself.

"I come hither as Marquis de Varenac," he replied.

"As Marquis de Varenac? And Trouet----"

The latter question was involuntary.

"Is as much my enemy as that of my cousin here."

His eyes sought Count Jehan's.

"Yes, yes," answered the latter quickly. "All is explained. My good friend and cousin is here with me to do what he can to save his people from themselves--and Marcel Trouet."

"If it be not too late," murmured Morice bitterly.