At nine o'clock the next evening Quentin and Savage found themselves
in the rooms occupied by the prince, the former experiencing a
distinct sense of wariness and caution.
If Quentin suspected some form of treachery at the outset, he was
soon obliged to ridicule his fears. There were nearly a score of men
there, and a single glance revealed to him the gratifying fact that
no treachery could be practiced in such an assemblage. Among their
fellow guests there was an English lord, an Austrian duke, a Russian
prince, a German baron, besides others from France, Belgium and
Germany.
Prince Ugo greeted them warmly, and they were at their ease in an
instant under the magnetism of his manner. Duke Laselli and Count
Diego were more profuse in their greetings to the young men, and it
devolved upon the latter to introduce them to the distinguished
strangers. There was but one other American there, a millionaire
whose name is a household word in the states and whose money was at
that time just beginning to assert itself as a menace to the great
commercial interests of the old world. He welcomed his fellow New
Yorkers with no small show of delight. The expression of relief on
his face plainly exposed a previous fear that he was unspeakably
alone in this assemblage of continental aristocrats.
At the table, Quentin sat between an Austrian duke and a German
named Von Kragg. He was but two seats removed from Prince Ugo, while
Savage was on the other side of the table, almost opposite Quentin.
On Dickey's right sat the Duke Laselli, and next to that individual
was the American millionaire. Directly across the broad table from
Quentin was the tall rakish-looking Count Diego Sallaconi.
“Ob, nobde gap sansan wobble wibble raggle dully pang rubby dub,
bob,” said the baron, in his best French, addressing the statuesque
American with the broad shoulders and the intense countenance.
“With all my heart,” responded Mr. Quentin, with rare composure and
equal confidence. He had no more conception of what the baron
intended to say than he would have had if the planet Mars had
wigwagged a signal to him, but he was polite enough to do anything
for the sake of conversation. The baron smiled gladly, even
approvingly; it was plain that he understood Phil's English fully as
well as that gentleman understood his French. Quentin heard his name
uttered by Prince Ugo and turned from the baron.
“Mr. Quentin, Prince Kapolski tells me he saw our friends, the
Saxondales, in London last week. They were preparing to go to their
place in the country. You have been there, have you not?” Prince Ugo
turned his gleaming eyes and engaging smile upon the man addressed.
“On several occasions,” responded the other. “Saxondale is a famous
hunter and he gave me some rare sport. When do they leave London?”
he asked, indifferently.
“They were to have started this week,” said the Russian prince,
“and there is to be quite a large party, I hear. A young American
who was with them was called away suddenly last week, and, as the
trip was arranged for his special amusement--by the Lady Jane, I was
told--his departure upset the plans a trifle.” Quentin and Savage,
who had heard the remarks glanced at one another in surprise.
“I should enjoy being with them,” said the former, warmly. “My
friend, Mr. Savage, was invited, I think,” he added, and Dickey
studiously consulted the salad. He had not been invited and the
announcement that the Saxondales were off for the north of England
was news to him.
“Oh, certainly,” exclaimed Ugo; “he was their guest. And the Lady
Jane arranged it, you say, Kapolski? Draft horses could not have
been strong enough to pull me away from London had she planned for
my pleasure. You must discover the fault in him, my dear Quentin,
and hold him to account for a very reprehensible act.” Ugo knew that
Dickey was listening, and the first point in a beautiful game was
scored.
“Mr. Savage does not care for shooting,” said Phil, flushing
slightly. The Russian prince had been looking at him intently; a
peculiar flash came into his eye when Quentin made the defensive
remark.
“But there is game to be had without resorting to the gun,” he said,
smiling blandly.
“One doesn't have to go to a shooting box to bag it, though,” said
Sallaconi, mischievously.
“I think the hunter uses bow and arrow exclusively,” added Ugo, and
there was a general laugh, which sent a streak of red up Dickey's
cheeks. If the Russian's news was true he had been purposely
slighted by the Saxondales. And yet it was not altogether
humiliation or wounded pride that brought the red to his cheek. He
and the Lady Jane had quarrelled just before he left her, and while
he hated her and she hated him and all that, still he did not care
to hear her name bandied about by the wine sippers at this
delectable table.
“What are they talking about?” asked the American millionaire of
Dickey, his curiosity aroused by the laughter of a moment before.
“About as nasty as they can,” growled Dickey. “That's their style,
you know.”
“Whew! You don't have much of an opinion of nobility. Beware of the
prince,” said the other, in a low tone.
“You couldn't insult some of them with a deliberate and well-aimed
kick,” remarked the younger man, sourly. The Duke Laselli's ears
turned a shade pinker under his oily, swarthy skin, for the words
penetrated them in spite of the speaker's caution.
“A toast,” said the Russian prince, arising from his seat beside
Ravorelli. The guests arose and glasses almost met in a long line
above the center of the table. Ugo alone remained seated as if
divining that they were to drink to him. For the first time Quentin
closely observed the Russian. He was tall and of a powerful frame,
middle-aged and the possessor of a strong, handsome face on which
years of dissipation had left few weakening marks. His eyes were
narrow and as blue as the sky, his hair light and bushy, his beard
coarse and suggestive of the fierceness of the wild boar. His voice
was clear and cutting, and his French almost perfect. “We drink to
the undying happiness of our host, the luckiest prince in all the
world. May he always know the bliss of a lover and never the cares
of a husband; may his wedded state be an endless love story without
a prosaic passage; may life with the new Princess of Ravorelli be a
poem, a song, a jub late, with never a dirge between its morn and
its midnight.”
“And a long life to him,” added Quentin, clearly. As they drank the
eyes of Prince Ugo were upon the last speaker, and there was a
puzzled expression in them. Count Sallaconi's black eyebrows shot up
at the outer ends and a curious grimness fastened itself about his
mouth and nose.
“I thank you, gentlemen,” responded Ugo, arising. “Will you divide
the toast with me in proposing the happiness of the one who is to
bring all these good things into my life?” The half-emptied glasses
were drained. Dickey Savage's eyes met Quentin's in a long look of
perplexity. At last an almost imperceptible twinkle, suggestive of
either mirth or skepticism, manifested itself in his friend's eyes
and the puzzled observer was satisfied.
When, in the end, the diners pushed their chairs back from the table
and passed into another room, it was far past midnight, and the real
revelry of the night was at hand. Reckless, voluptuous women from
the vaudeville houses and dance halls appeared, and for hours the
wine-soaked scions of nobility reeked in those exhibitions which
shock the sensibilities of true men. Four men there were who tried
to conceal their disgust while the others roared out the applause of
degenerates.
“I am not a saint, but this is more than I can stand. It is
sickening,” said Quentin.
“And these miserable specimens of European manhood delight in it,”
said Savage, his face aflame with shame and disgust. “It is too vile
for a man who has a breath of manhood in him to encourage, and yet
these bounders go crazy with rapture. Gad, don't ask what kind of
women they are. Ask how it is the world has ever called these
fellows men.”
“Did I understand you correctly, sir?” asked a cold voice at his
side, and Dickey turned to look into the flaming eyes of Prince
Kapolski. Count Sallaconi was clutching the left arm of the big
Russian, and there was a look of dismay in his face. He flashed a
glance of fierce disappointment at Quentin, and then one of
helplessness across the room at Prince Ugo.
“If you understand English you probably did,” said Dickey, pale but
defiant.
“Come, prince,” began the agitated count, but Kapolski shook him
off.
“You must apologize for your comments, sir,” said the prince, in
excellent English.
“I can't apologize, you know. I meant what I said,” said Dickey,
drawing himself up to the limit of his five feet ten. The Russian's
open hand came violently in contact with the young fellow's cheek,
driving the tears to the surface of his eyes They were tears of
anger, pain and mortification, not of submission or fear.
His clenched right hand shot outward and upward, and before the
Russian knew what had happened a crashing blow caught him full in
the jaw, and he would have gone sprawling to the floor had not Diego
Sallaconi caught him in his arms. Quentin grasped Dickey and pulled
him away, while others rushed in and held the roaring, sputtering
victim.
All was confusion and excitement in an instant. Quentin and the
millionaire drew their lithe countryman away from the gathering
crowd, one cheek white as a sheet, the other a bright pink, and Phil
hoarsely whispered to him:
“I don't know what we're in for, Dickey, so for heaven's sake let's
get out of here. We don't want any more of it. You gave him a good
punch and that's enough.”
“You broke up the show all right enough,” exclaimed the millionaire,
excitedly. “The fairies ran over each other trying to get out of the
room. You're as game as a fighting cock, too.”
“Let me alone, Phil!” panted Dickey. “You don't suppose I'm going to
run from that big duffer, do you? Let go!”
“Don't be a fool, Dickey,” said his friend, earnestly. Just then a
pale-faced, sickly-looking waiter came up from behind and hoarsely
whispered in Quentin's ear:
“Get out, quick! The big prince made a mistake. He was to have
quarrelled with you, Monsieur.” He was gone before he could be
questioned.
“See!” exclaimed Dickey. “It was a job, after all, and the dago is
at the bottom of it!”
“Sh! Here he comes with the Russian and the whole pack behind them.
It's too late; we can't run now,” said Phil, despairingly. As Ugo
and Kapolski crossed the room, the former, whose face was white with
suppressed passion, hissed under his breath into the ear of the
raging Russian:
“You fool, it was the other one--the tall one! You have quarrelled
with the wrong man. The big one is Quentin, Kapolski. How could you
have made such a mistake?”
“Mistake or no mistake, he has struck me, and he shall pay for it.
The other can come later,” growled the Russian, savagely.
“Gentlemen, this is no place to fight. Let us have explanations--”
began Ugo, addressing Quentin more than Savage, but the latter
interrupted:
“Call off your dogs and we will talk it over,” he said.
“Dickey!” cautioned his friend.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Savage. My dogs? Oh, I see, Mr.
Quentin; he is mad with anger,” said the prince, deprecatingly.
“There can be no explanations,” snarled Kapolski. “My card,
Monsieur,” and he threw the pasteboard in the young American's face.
“Damn your impudence,” exploded Quentin, now ready to take the fight
off the hands of the one on whom it had been forced through error.
“You ought to be kicked downstairs for that.”
“You will have that to recall, Monsieur, but not until after I have
disposed of your valiant friend,” exclaimed Kapolski.
“We are not in the habit of waiting for a chance to dispose of such
affairs,” said Quentin, coolly. “We fight when we have a cause and
on the spot.”
“Do you expect civilized men to carry arms into drawing-rooms?”
sneered Kapolski. Ugo's face was lighting up with pleasure and
satisfaction and Sallaconi was breathing easier.
“I'm speaking of hands, not arms,” said Phil, glaring at the other.
“I'll fight him in a second,” cried Dickey.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Be calm! Let this affair be arranged by your
seconds and in the regular manner,” expostulated Ugo. “This is very
unusual, and I must beg of you to remember that you are in my
rooms.”
“That is the rub, Prince Ravorelli. It has happened in your rooms,
and I want to say to you that if evil befalls my friend, I shall
hold you to account for it,” said Quentin, turning on him suddenly.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You know what I mean. I can and am ready to fight my own battles.”
“This outrageous brawl is none of my affair, Mr. Quentin, and I do
not like your threat. You and I should do all in our power to
prevent it from going farther. Your friend was too free with his
words, I am told. If he did not like my entertainment, he should
have left the room.”
“Well, I didn't like it, if you want to know,” said Dickey. “And I
don't care a continental who heard what I said.”
“Does he still want to fight with his hands?” demanded Kapolski, now
cool and ironical. There was an infuriating attempt on his part to
speak as if he were addressing a small, pouting child.
“Anything--anything! The only point is, you'll have to fight
to-night--right now. I've two or three friends here who'll see that
I get fair play.” said Dickey, discretion flying to the wind.
“You shall fight and here!” exclaimed the Russian. “But you shall
fight like a gentleman for once in your life. I will not claw and
scratch with you, like the women do, but with any weapon you name.”
Dickey's valor did not fade, but his discretion came to the surface
with a suddenness that took his breath away. He turned to speak to
Quentin and the millionaire. Phil's face was deathly white, and
there was a pleading look in his eyes. The millionaire was trembling
like a leaf.
“I guess I'll take pistols,” said Dickey, slowly. “I can't hit the
side of a barn, but he can't bluff me, damn him.”
“Great Scott, Dickey! Don't do it, don't do it!” whispered Quentin.
“This is my fight, you know it is, and I won't let you--”
“You can't help it, old boy. He'll probably get me, but I may be
lucky enough to have a bullet land in him. My only chance is to aim
anywhere but at him, shut my eyes, and trust to luck.” Then turning
to Kapolski he said, deliberately: “Pistols, and here, if the prince
does not object.”
“Cannot this affair be postponed--” began Ugo, desperately.
“Not unless your friend forgets that I punched his head. It is now
or never with me,” said Dickey.
“I insist that it is my right to fight this man!” exclaimed Quentin,
standing forth. “I first expressed the opinion which Mr. Savage
merely echoed and to which Prince Kapolski took exception.”
“But you did not strike me. In any event, you shall come next, Mr.
Quentin; I shall take you on immediately after I have disposed of
your cockadoodle friend,” said Kapolski, throwing aside his coat.
“You have pistols here, Prince Ravorelli?”
“This is murder,” cried the millionaire, “and I shall take it before
the United States government.”
“Dickey! Dickey!” cried Phil, helplessly, as Savage began to remove
his coat.
“I have weapons, if you insist, gentlemen,” said Ugo. At his words
intense excitement prevailed, for now there could be no doubt as to
the result of the quarrel. Count Sallaconi hurried away for the
pistols, smiling significantly as he passed his prince. His smile
said that Kapolski would kill two men that night.
“For God's sake, Dickey, be careful, if you must fight. Take
deliberate aim and don't lose your nerve,” cried Quentin, grasping
him by the arms. “You are as cold as ice.”
“I haven't fired a pistol more than a dozen times in my life,” said
Dickey, smiling faintly.
“Then shoot low,” said the millionaire.
“Your second, Monsieur?” said the Austrian duke, coming to Savage's
side.
“Mr. Quentin will act, Monsieur le Duc. We may need a surgeon.”
“Dr. Gassbeck is here.”
It was hurriedly agreed that the men should stand at opposite ends
of the room, nearly twenty feet apart, back to back. At the word
given by Prince Ugo, they were to turn and fire.
Sallaconi came in with the pistol case and the seconds examined the
weapons carefully. A moment later the room was cleared except for
the adversaries, the seconds, and Prince Ugo.
There was the stillness of death. On the face of the Russian there
was an easy smile, for was not he a noted shot? Had he ever missed
an adversary in a duel? Dickey was pale, but he did not tremble as
he took the pistol in his hand.
“Good-bye, Phil,” was all he said. Poor Quentin turned his face away
as he clasped his hand, and he could only murmur:
“If he hits you, I'll kill him.”
A moment later the word “fire” came and the two men whirled into
position. Dickey's arm went up like a flash, the other's more
cruelly deliberate. Two loud reports followed in quick succession,
the slim American's nervous finger pressed the trigger first. He had
not taken aim. He had located his man's position before turning
away, and the whole force of his will was bent on driving the bullet
directly toward the spot he had in mind. Kapolski's bullet struck
the wall above Dickey's head, his deadly aim spoiled by the quick,
reckless shot from the other end of the room.
He lunged forward. Dickey's bullet had blown away part of the big
Russian's chin and jaw, burying itself in the wall beyond.