he chin, with his
other hand he beat at the weapon. There were two reports and a sharp
high cry.

[Illustration: Under the blow, the masked man staggered drunkenly.]

Under the blow the masked man staggered drunkenly, his revolver
swaying in front of Roddy's eyes. Roddy clutched at it and there was a
struggle--another report--and then the man broke from him, and with
the swift, gliding movement of a snake, slipped through the bushes.

III

Roddy stood staring blankly, unconsciously sucking at a raw spot on
his finger where the powder had burned it. At his feet the bottle of
curacao, from which he had just been drinking, was rolling upon the
gravel path, its life-blood bubbling out upon the pebbles. He stooped
and lifted it. Later he remembered wondering how it had come there,
and, at the time, that so much good liquor had been wasted had seemed
a most irritating circumstance.

He moved to replace the bottle upon the table and found the table
overturned, with Peter, his clothes dripping and his eyes aflame,
emerging from beneath it.

Further up the path the young Venezuelan was struggling in the arms of
his friends. Fearful that he might still be in danger they were
restraining him, and he, eager to pursue the man who had fired on him,
was crying aloud his protests. Others of his friends were racing down
the different paths, breaking through the bushes, and often, in their
excitement, seizing upon one another. Huddled together in a group,
the waiters and coachmen explained, gesticulated, shrieked.

But above the clamor of all, the voice of Peter was the most
insistent. Leaping from a wreck of plates and glasses, his clothing
splashed with claret, with coffee, with salad dressing, with the
tablecloth wound like a kilt about his legs, he jumped at Roddy and
Roddy retreated before him. Raging, and in the name of profane places,
Peter demanded what Roddy "meant" by it.

"Look at me!" he commanded. "Look what you did! Look at me!"

Roddy did not look. If he looked he knew he would laugh. And he knew
Peter was hoping he would laugh so that, at that crowning insult, he
might fall upon him.

In tones of humble, acute regret Roddy protested.

"I did it, Peter," he stammered hastily. "I did it--to save you. I was
afraid he would hit you. I had to act quickly----"

"Afraid _he'd_ hit me!" roared Peter. "_You_ hit me! Hit me with a
table! Look at my new white flannel suit! And look at this!" With his
fingers