d seen somewhere
before), was a small, sturdy fellow, with fine grey eyes, a square red
tie and a square red beard, that he carried aggressively forward as if
he defied anyone to pull it. The other kept so much in the background in
comparison that he looked almost ghostly in his grey cloak or plaid, a
tall, sallow, silent young man.

The two Scotchmen were interested in seventeenth-century swords. They
were fastidious about them. They had a whole armoury of these weapons
brought out and rolled clattering about the counter, until they found
two of precisely the same length. Presumably they desired the exact
symmetry for some decorative trophy. Even then they felt the points,
poised the swords for balance and bent them in a circle to see that they
sprang straight again; which, for decorative purposes, seems carrying
realism rather far.

"These will do," said the strange person with the red beard. "And
perhaps I had better pay for them at once. And as you are the
challenger, Mr. MacIan, perhaps you had better explain the situation."

The tall Scotchman in grey took a step forward and spoke in a voice
quite clear and bold, and yet somehow lifeless, like a man going through
an ancient formality.

"The fact is, Mr. Gordon, we have to place our honour in your hands.
Words have passed between Mr. Turnbull and myself on a grave
and invaluable matter, which can only be atoned for by fighting.
Unfortunately, as the police are in some sense pursuing us, we are
hurried, and must fight now and without seconds. But if you will be so
kind as to take us into your little garden and see far play, we shall
feel how----"

The shopman recovered himself from a stunning surprise and burst out:

"Gentlemen, are you drunk? A duel! A duel in my garden. Go home,
gentlemen, go home. Why, what did you quarrel about?"

"We quarrelled," said Evan, in the same dead voice, "about religion."
The fat shopkeeper rolled about in his chair with enjoyment.

"Well, this is a funny game," he said. "So you want to commit murder
on behalf of religion. Well, well my religion is a little respect for
humanity, and----"

"Excuse me," cut in Turnbull, suddenly and fiercely, pointing towards
the pawnbroker's next door. "Don't you own that shop?"

"Why--er--yes," said Gordon.

"And don't you own that shop?" repeated the secularist, pointing
backward to the pornographic bookseller.

"What if I do?"

"Why, then," cried Turnbull, with grating contempt. "I