"Sir Arthur," said the girl, "is there no way to stop this foolish
matter? Is there not yet time?"

"Why, as to that," said Sir Arthur, "it all depends upon the speed of my
own horse. I should think myself e'en let off cheaply if he took the
horse and rode on out of London, and never turned up again. Yet, I
bethink me, he has a way of turning up. If so, then we are too late. Let
him go. For me, I'd liefer sit me here with Lady Catharine, who, I
perceive, is about now to save my death of hunger, since now I see the
tea tray coming. Thank thee prettily."

Lady Catharine poured for him with a hand none too steady. "Sir Arthur,"
said she, "you know why I have this concern over such a quarrel. You
know well enough what the duello has cost the house of Knollys. Of my
uncles, four were killed upon this so-called field of honor. My
grandfather met his death in that same way. Another relative, before my
time, is reputed to have slain a friend in this same manner. As you
know, but three years ago, my brother, the living representative of our
family, had the misfortune to slay his kinsman in a duel which sprang
out of some little jest. I say to you, Sir Arthur, that this quarrel
must be stopped, and we must do thus much for our friends forthwith. It
must not go on."

"For our friends! Our friends!" cried Sir Arthur. "Ah, ha! so you mean
that the old beau hath hit thee, too, with his ardent eye. Or--hang!
What--you mean not that this stranger, this Scotchman, is a friend of
yours?"

"I speak but confusedly," said the Lady Catharine. "'Tis my prejudice
against such fighting, as you know. Can we not make haste, and so
prevent this meeting?"

"Oh, I doubt if there be much need of haste," said Sir Arthur, balancing
his cup in his hand judicially. "This matter will fall through at most
for the day. They assuredly can not meet until to-morrow. This will be
the talk of London, if it goes on in this pell-mell, hurly-burly
fashion. As to the stopping of it--well now, the law under William and
Mary saith that one who slays another in a duel of premeditation is
nothing but a murderer, and may be hanged like any felon; hanged by the
neck, till he be dead. Alas, what a fate for this pretty Scotchman!"

Sir Arthur paused. A look of wonder swept across his face. "Open the
window, Annie!" he cried suddenly to the servant. "Your mistress is
ill."

CHAPTER XI

AS CHANCE DECREED

Mischance delayed the carriage of Beau Wilson in it