and far better expressed. Whereas the
English guests of the Junta, when they heard the tale of Nellie O'Mora,
would merely murmur "Poor girl!" or "What a shame!" Mr. Oover said in a
tone of quiet authority that compelled Greddon's ear "Duke, I hope I am
not incognisant of the laws that govern the relations of guest and host.
But, Duke, I aver deliberately that the founder of this fine old
club; at which you are so splendidly entertaining me to-night, was an
unmitigated scoundrel. I say he was not a white man."

At the word "scoundrel," Humphrey Greddon had sprung forward, drawing
his sword, and loudly, in a voice audible to himself alone, challenged
the American to make good his words. Then, as this gentleman took no
notice, with one clean straight thrust Greddon ran him through the
heart, shouting "Die, you damned psalm-singer and traducer! And so die
all rebels against King George!"* Withdrawing the blade, he wiped it
daintily on his cambric handkerchief. There was no blood. Mr. Oover,
with unpunctured shirt-front, was repeating "I say he was not a white
man." And Greddon remembered himself--remembered he was only a ghost,
impalpable, impotent, of no account. "But I shall meet you in Hell
to-morrow," he hissed in Oover's face. And there he was wrong. It is
quite certain that Oover went to Heaven.

* As Edward VII. was at this time on the throne, it must have been
to George III. that Mr. Greddon was referring.

Unable to avenge himself, Greddon had looked to the Duke to act for him.
When he saw that this young man did but smile at Oover and make a vague
deprecatory gesture, he again, in his wrath, forgot his disabilities.
Drawing himself to his full height, he took with great deliberation a
pinch of snuff, and, bowing low to the Duke, said "I am vastly obleeged
to your Grace for the fine high Courage you have exhibited in the behalf
of your most Admiring, most Humble Servant." Then, having brushed away
a speck of snuff from his jabot, he turned on his heel; and only in the
doorway, where one of the club servants, carrying a decanter in each
hand, walked straight through him, did he realise that he had not
spoilt the Duke's evening. With a volley of the most appalling
eighteenth-century oaths, he passed back into the nether world.

To the Duke, Nellie O'Mora had never been a very vital figure. He had
often repeated the legend of her. But, having never known what love was,
he could not imagine her rapture or h