"Pistols!" shouted Abbott. "For the love of glory, what are you driving

at?"

"The Barone has asked me to be his second. And I have despatched a note to

the colonel, advising him to attend to your side. I accepted the Barone's

proposition solely that I might get here first and convince you that an

apology will save you a heap of discomfort. The Barone is a first-rate

shot, and doubtless he will only wing you. But that will mean scandal and

several weeks in the hospital, to say nothing of a devil of a row with the

civil authorities. In the army the Italian still fights his duello, but

these affairs never get into the newspapers, as in France. Seldom,

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however, is any one seriously hurt. They are excitable, and consequently a

good shot is likely to shoot wildly at a pinch. So there you are, my

boy."

"Are you in your right mind? Do you mean to tell me that you have come

here to arrange a duel?" asked Abbott, his voice low and a bit shaky.

"To prevent one. So, write your apology. Don't worry about the moral side

of the question. It's only a fool who will offer himself as a target to a

man who knows how to shoot. You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with

a shot-gun."

Abbott brushed the dust from his coat and got up. "A duel!" He laughed a

bit hysterically. Well, why not? Since Nora could never be his, there was

no future for him. He might far better serve as a target than to go on

living with the pain and bitterness in his heart. "Very well. Tell the

Barone my choice is pistols. He may set the time and place himself."

"Go over to that desk and write that apology. If you don't, I promise on

my part to tell Nora Harrigan, who, I dare say, is at the bottom of this,

innocently or otherwise."

"Courtlandt!"

"I mean just what I say. Take your choice. Stop this nonsense yourself

like a reasonable human being, or let Nora Harrigan stop it for you. There

will be no duel, not if I can help it."

Abbott saw instantly what would happen. Nora would go to the Barone and

beg off for him. "All right! I'll write that apology. But listen: you will

knock hereafter when you enter any of my studios. You've kicked out the

bottom from the old footing. You are not the friend you profess to be. You

are making me a coward in the eyes of that damned Italian. He will never

understand this phase of it." Thereupon Abbott ran over to his desk and

scribbled the note, sealing it with a bang. "Here you are. Perhaps you had

best go at once."




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