the sanded space but still half facing the audience, "is Guiseppe,
the Lothario of this little act. The other is Jim, the wronged
husband. You know their story. Now, Jim," he added, turning towards
the Englishman, "I put in your trousers pocket these notes, two hundred
pounds, you will perceive. I place in the trousers pocket of Guiseppe
here notes to the same amount. I understand you have a little quarrel to
fight out. The one who wins will naturally help himself to the other's
money, together with that other little reward which I imagine was the
first cause of your quarrel. Now... let them go."

Sir Timothy resumed his seat and leaned back in leisurely fashion. The
two attendants solemnly released their captives. There was a moment's
intense silence. The two men seemed fencing for position. There was
something stealthy and horrible about their movements as they crept
around one another. Francis realised what it was almost as the little
sobbing breath from those of the audience who still retained any
emotion, showed him that they, too, foresaw what was going to happen.
Both men had drawn knives from their belts. It was murder which had been
let loose.

Francis found himself almost immediately upon his feet. His whole being
seemed crying out for interference. Lady Cynthia's death-white face and
pleading eyes seemed like the echo of his own passionate aversion to
what was taking place. Then he met Sir Timothy's gaze across the room
and he remembered his promise. Under no conditions was he to protest
or interfere. He set his teeth and resumed his seat. The fight went
on. There were little sobs and tremors of excitement, strange banks of
silence. Both men seemed out of condition. The sound of their hoarse
breathing was easily heard against the curtain of spellbound silence.
For a time their knives stabbed the empty air, but from the first the
end seemed certain. The Englishman attacked wildly. His adversary waited
his time, content with avoiding the murderous blows struck at him,
striving all the time to steal underneath the other's guard. And then,
almost without warning, it was all over. Jim was on his back in a
crumpled heap. There was a horrid stain upon his coat. The other man
was kneeling by his side, hate, glaring out of his eyes, guiding all
the time the rising and falling of his knife. There was one more
shriek--then silence only the sound of the victor's breathing as he rose
slowly from his ghastly task. Sir Tim