ich hit him too hard. Suddenly he sprang at me as
though he were a wild cat. His eyes rolled, his face was convulsed
beyond recognition. Men I have never feared; he seemed, however,
not a man but some demoniac risen from hell. In self-defence I
struck him with the small poniard which I have carried all my life.
He staggered back, and the blood-letting seemed to relieve his
temper.

"Go!" said he; "go while you can. I don't think the wound is
mortal, but I don't wish any man hanged for murdering me."

It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside myself with
contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation of his cowardice.

I replied coolly enough,--"I would not murder you. Have no alarm on
that score. But I can defend myself, I hope."

By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter
was passing at the time.

"Sir," said Parflete, "I have the honour to wish you good-day."

The waiter heard this remark distinctly, and saw me bow as I parted
from the wretched creature.

Parflete's appearance was ghastly, but I attributed this pallor to
fright and not to pain, for I believed from my heart that the wound
was no more than a slight prick. I left the hotel, took a cab to my
lodgings, and after reading a light Spanish novel in order to
change the current of my thoughts, I passed an excellent night,
sleeping at least seven hours.

CHAPTER XXVI

Lord Garrow, after much cautious consideration, had decided that Lady
Sara could not absent herself from the d'Alchingens' party without
exciting unfavourable comment, and so prejudicing her future
relationship with the Duke of Marshire. His lordship, in his secret
heart, was by no means sorry for Reckage's untimely death. An orthodox
faith in a better, happier world assisted his conscience over the many
difficulties which afflict a strong sense of good manners. Good manners
demanded some show of grief at the young man's melancholy end; but, as
his lordship pointed out to his weeping daughter, higher reflections
ought to triumph over the vulgar instincts of sorrow, and an etiquette
almost heathenish. "Let us be thankful," said he, "that poor Beauclerk
was spared some lingering malady and the shattering disappointments of a
public career. He would not wish us to mourn. And indeed, any undue
mourning on your part might give a very false