oor Abbott smiled
and bowed and returned to the garden. The Barone rose to follow him. He
had committed a theft of which he was genuinely sorry; and he was man
enough to seek his rival and apologize. But fate had chosen for him the
worst possible time. He had taken but a step forward, when a tableau
formed by the door, causing him to pause irresolutely.

Nora was face to face at last with Flora Desimone.

"I wish to speak to you," said the Italian abruptly.

"Nothing you could possibly say would interest me," declared Nora,
haughtily and made as if to pass.

"Do not be too sure," insolently.

Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished
he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the
exit.

"Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart," continued
Flora. "I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose
father...."

"Don't you dare to say an ill word of him!" cried Nora, her Irish blood
throwing hauteur to the winds. "He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am
proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the
least."

The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was
mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well,
for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone's eyes searched the
shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet.

[Illustration: "I hate you and detest you with all my heart."]

"Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched
off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible
cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!"

The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to
apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood.
Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly
knocked him down.

CHAPTER XVIII

PISTOLS FOR TWO

Courtlandt knocked on the studio door.

"Come in."

He discovered Abbott, stretched out upon the lounge, idly picking at the
loose plaster in the wall.

"Hello!" said Abbott carelessly. "Help yourself to a chair."

Instead, Courtlandt walked about the room, aimlessly. He paused at the
window; he picked up a sketch and studied it at various angles; he kicked
the footstool across the floor, not with any sign of anger but with a
seriousness that would have caused Abbott to laugh, had he