rd sidewalk, which helped itself over the ups and
downs of the ungraded thoroughfare by means of short, erratic flights of
steps at certain points, he distinctly heard footsteps following. They
sounded plainly on the plank walk, and he did not for a moment doubt
whose they were. His hands were in his coat-pockets. On the little
finger of his left hand was the ring.

He paused, opposite the brightly lighted windows of the last saloon in
the row. The town ended there, the street lapsing into a rough and
trackless barren. Here he waited for the Frenchman to come up with him.
He watched his progress with a curious interest, noting how the figure
was at one moment lost in the shadow, only to emerge, the next instant,
into the full light that streamed from some nocturnal haunt. As he came
up with Dirke, the electric light over the entrance to the saloon shone
full upon them both.

Dirke waited for him to speak. Again he raised his hat, but this time
Dirke was on his guard and was not to be betrayed into any concession
to courtesy. There was a slight shrug of the shoulders as the Frenchman
replaced his hat. He spoke, however, in a conciliatory tone:

"It is a fine evening," he observed. "I have followed your example. I go
for a walk."

"You have followed me, you mean," said Dirke, bluntly. "I heard you
behind me."

Then, moved by a sudden impulse to precipitate matters, he drew his left
hand from his pocket. The diamonds flashed in the light.

M. de Lys's eyes flashed in response. With all his unabated elegance, he
had something the look of a tiger ready to spring upon his prey. But he
held himself in check.

"Monsieur!" he cried, and there was a savage note in his voice, which
Dirke would not have credited him with. "Monsieur! If you decline to
permit me to pay for that ring to-morrow, I am ready to _fight_ for it
to-night!" He pronounced the word "_fight_" with a peculiar, hissing
emphasis.

"Not to-night," Dirke rejoined quietly.

"And why not to-night, Monsieur, may I ask?"

"Because I am armed, and you are not."

At the word Dirke had drawn his right hand from his pocket; the barrel
of a pistol gleamed white between them.

The Frenchman recoiled. His face was not pleasant to look upon, yet his
antagonist would have been sorry to lose the sight of it.

Dirke stood, tall and slim and commanding, his face set in the
accustomed lines. No emotion whatever was to be seen there, not even
contempt for the man who