At nine o'clock the next evening Quentin and Savage found themselves in the rooms occupied by the prince, the former experiencing a distinct sense of wariness and caution.

If Quentin suspected some form of treachery at the outset, he was soon obliged to ridicule his fears. There were nearly a score of men there, and a single glance revealed to him the gratifying fact that no treachery could be practiced in such an assemblage. Among their fellow guests there was an English lord, an Austrian duke, a Russian prince, a German baron, besides others from France, Belgium and Germany.

Prince Ugo greeted them warmly, and they were at their ease in an instant under the magnetism of his manner. Duke Laselli and Count Diego were more profuse in their greetings to the young men, and it devolved upon the latter to introduce them to the distinguished strangers. There was but one other American there, a millionaire whose name is a household word in the states and whose money was at that time just beginning to assert itself as a menace to the great commercial interests of the old world. He welcomed his fellow New Yorkers with no small show of delight. The expression of relief on his face plainly exposed a previous fear that he was unspeakably alone in this assemblage of continental aristocrats.

At the table, Quentin sat between an Austrian duke and a German named Von Kragg. He was but two seats removed from Prince Ugo, while Savage was on the other side of the table, almost opposite Quentin. On Dickey's right sat the Duke Laselli, and next to that individual was the American millionaire. Directly across the broad table from Quentin was the tall rakish-looking Count Diego Sallaconi.

“Ob, nobde gap sansan wobble wibble raggle dully pang rubby dub, bob,” said the baron, in his best French, addressing the statuesque American with the broad shoulders and the intense countenance.

“With all my heart,” responded Mr. Quentin, with rare composure and equal confidence. He had no more conception of what the baron intended to say than he would have had if the planet Mars had wigwagged a signal to him, but he was polite enough to do anything for the sake of conversation. The baron smiled gladly, even approvingly; it was plain that he understood Phil's English fully as well as that gentleman understood his French. Quentin heard his name uttered by Prince Ugo and turned from the baron.

“Mr. Quentin, Prince Kapolski tells me he saw our friends, the Saxondales, in London last week. They were preparing to go to their place in the country. You have been there, have you not?” Prince Ugo turned his gleaming eyes and engaging smile upon the man addressed.

“On several occasions,” responded the other. “Saxondale is a famous hunter and he gave me some rare sport. When do they leave London?” he asked, indifferently.

“They were to have started this week,” said the Russian prince, “and there is to be quite a large party, I hear. A young American who was with them was called away suddenly last week, and, as the trip was arranged for his special amusement—by the Lady Jane, I was told—his departure upset the plans a trifle.” Quentin and Savage, who had heard the remarks glanced at one another in surprise.

“I should enjoy being with them,” said the former, warmly. “My friend, Mr. Savage, was invited, I think,” he added, and Dickey studiously consulted the salad. He had not been invited and the announcement that the Saxondales were off for the north of England was news to him.

“Oh, certainly,” exclaimed Ugo; “he was their guest. And the Lady Jane arranged it, you say, Kapolski? Draft horses could not have been strong enough to pull me away from London had she planned for my pleasure. You must discover the fault in him, my dear Quentin, and hold him to account for a very reprehensible act.” Ugo knew that Dickey was listening, and the first point in a beautiful game was scored.

“Mr. Savage does not care for shooting,” said Phil, flushing slightly. The Russian prince had been looking at him intently; a peculiar flash came into his eye when Quentin made the defensive remark.

“But there is game to be had without resorting to the gun,” he said, smiling blandly.

“One doesn't have to go to a shooting box to bag it, though,” said Sallaconi, mischievously.

“I think the hunter uses bow and arrow exclusively,” added Ugo, and there was a general laugh, which sent a streak of red up Dickey's cheeks. If the Russian's news was true he had been purposely slighted by the Saxondales. And yet it was not altogether humiliation or wounded pride that brought the red to his cheek. He and the Lady Jane had quarrelled just before he left her, and while he hated her and she hated him and all that, still he did not care to hear her name bandied about by the wine sippers at this delectable table.

“What are they talking about?” asked the American millionaire of Dickey, his curiosity aroused by the laughter of a moment before.

“About as nasty as they can,” growled Dickey. “That's their style, you know.”

“Whew! You don't have much of an opinion of nobility. Beware of the prince,” said the other, in a low tone.

“You couldn't insult some of them with a deliberate and well-aimed kick,” remarked the younger man, sourly. The Duke Laselli's ears turned a shade pinker under his oily, swarthy skin, for the words penetrated them in spite of the speaker's caution.

“A toast,” said the Russian prince, arising from his seat beside Ravorelli. The guests arose and glasses almost met in a long line above the center of the table. Ugo alone remained seated as if divining that they were to drink to him. For the first time Quentin closely observed the Russian. He was tall and of a powerful frame, middle-aged and the possessor of a strong, handsome face on which years of dissipation had left few weakening marks. His eyes were narrow and as blue as the sky, his hair light and bushy, his beard coarse and suggestive of the fierceness of the wild boar. His voice was clear and cutting, and his French almost perfect. “We drink to the undying happiness of our host, the luckiest prince in all the world. May he always know the bliss of a lover and never the cares of a husband; may his wedded state be an endless love story without a prosaic passage; may life with the new Princess of Ravorelli be a poem, a song, a jub late, with never a dirge between its morn and its midnight.”

“And a long life to him,” added Quentin, clearly. As they drank the eyes of Prince Ugo were upon the last speaker, and there was a puzzled expression in them. Count Sallaconi's black eyebrows shot up at the outer ends and a curious grimness fastened itself about his mouth and nose.

“I thank you, gentlemen,” responded Ugo, arising. “Will you divide the toast with me in proposing the happiness of the one who is to bring all these good things into my life?” The half-emptied glasses were drained. Dickey Savage's eyes met Quentin's in a long look of perplexity. At last an almost imperceptible twinkle, suggestive of either mirth or skepticism, manifested itself in his friend's eyes and the puzzled observer was satisfied.

When, in the end, the diners pushed their chairs back from the table and passed into another room, it was far past midnight, and the real revelry of the night was at hand. Reckless, voluptuous women from the vaudeville houses and dance halls appeared, and for hours the wine-soaked scions of nobility reeked in those exhibitions which shock the sensibilities of true men. Four men there were who tried to conceal their disgust while the others roared out the applause of degenerates.

“I am not a saint, but this is more than I can stand. It is sickening,” said Quentin.

“And these miserable specimens of European manhood delight in it,” said Savage, his face aflame with shame and disgust. “It is too vile for a man who has a breath of manhood in him to encourage, and yet these bounders go crazy with rapture. Gad, don't ask what kind of women they are. Ask how it is the world has ever called these fellows men.”

“Did I understand you correctly, sir?” asked a cold voice at his side, and Dickey turned to look into the flaming eyes of Prince Kapolski. Count Sallaconi was clutching the left arm of the big Russian, and there was a look of dismay in his face. He flashed a glance of fierce disappointment at Quentin, and then one of helplessness across the room at Prince Ugo.

“If you understand English you probably did,” said Dickey, pale but defiant.

“Come, prince,” began the agitated count, but Kapolski shook him off.

“You must apologize for your comments, sir,” said the prince, in excellent English.

“I can't apologize, you know. I meant what I said,” said Dickey, drawing himself up to the limit of his five feet ten. The Russian's open hand came violently in contact with the young fellow's cheek, driving the tears to the surface of his eyes They were tears of anger, pain and mortification, not of submission or fear.

His clenched right hand shot outward and upward, and before the Russian knew what had happened a crashing blow caught him full in the jaw, and he would have gone sprawling to the floor had not Diego Sallaconi caught him in his arms. Quentin grasped Dickey and pulled him away, while others rushed in and held the roaring, sputtering victim.

All was confusion and excitement in an instant. Quentin and the millionaire drew their lithe countryman away from the gathering crowd, one cheek white as a sheet, the other a bright pink, and Phil hoarsely whispered to him:

“I don't know what we're in for, Dickey, so for heaven's sake let's get out of here. We don't want any more of it. You gave him a good punch and that's enough.”

“You broke up the show all right enough,” exclaimed the millionaire, excitedly. “The fairies ran over each other trying to get out of the room. You're as game as a fighting cock, too.”

“Let me alone, Phil!” panted Dickey. “You don't suppose I'm going to run from that big duffer, do you? Let go!”

“Don't be a fool, Dickey,” said his friend, earnestly. Just then a pale-faced, sickly-looking waiter came up from behind and hoarsely whispered in Quentin's ear:

“Get out, quick! The big prince made a mistake. He was to have quarrelled with you, Monsieur.” He was gone before he could be questioned.

“See!” exclaimed Dickey. “It was a job, after all, and the dago is at the bottom of it!”

“Sh! Here he comes with the Russian and the whole pack behind them. It's too late; we can't run now,” said Phil, despairingly. As Ugo and Kapolski crossed the room, the former, whose face was white with suppressed passion, hissed under his breath into the ear of the raging Russian:

“You fool, it was the other one—the tall one! You have quarrelled with the wrong man. The big one is Quentin, Kapolski. How could you have made such a mistake?”

“Mistake or no mistake, he has struck me, and he shall pay for it. The other can come later,” growled the Russian, savagely.

“Gentlemen, this is no place to fight. Let us have explanations—” began Ugo, addressing Quentin more than Savage, but the latter interrupted:

“Call off your dogs and we will talk it over,” he said.

“Dickey!” cautioned his friend.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Savage. My dogs? Oh, I see, Mr. Quentin; he is mad with anger,” said the prince, deprecatingly.

“There can be no explanations,” snarled Kapolski. “My card, Monsieur,” and he threw the pasteboard in the young American's face.

“Damn your impudence,” exploded Quentin, now ready to take the fight off the hands of the one on whom it had been forced through error. “You ought to be kicked downstairs for that.”

“You will have that to recall, Monsieur, but not until after I have disposed of your valiant friend,” exclaimed Kapolski.

“We are not in the habit of waiting for a chance to dispose of such affairs,” said Quentin, coolly. “We fight when we have a cause and on the spot.”

“Do you expect civilized men to carry arms into drawing-rooms?” sneered Kapolski. Ugo's face was lighting up with pleasure and satisfaction and Sallaconi was breathing easier.

“I'm speaking of hands, not arms,” said Phil, glaring at the other.

“I'll fight him in a second,” cried Dickey.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Be calm! Let this affair be arranged by your seconds and in the regular manner,” expostulated Ugo. “This is very unusual, and I must beg of you to remember that you are in my rooms.”

“That is the rub, Prince Ravorelli. It has happened in your rooms, and I want to say to you that if evil befalls my friend, I shall hold you to account for it,” said Quentin, turning on him suddenly.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You know what I mean. I can and am ready to fight my own battles.”

“This outrageous brawl is none of my affair, Mr. Quentin, and I do not like your threat. You and I should do all in our power to prevent it from going farther. Your friend was too free with his words, I am told. If he did not like my entertainment, he should have left the room.”

“Well, I didn't like it, if you want to know,” said Dickey. “And I don't care a continental who heard what I said.”

“Does he still want to fight with his hands?” demanded Kapolski, now cool and ironical. There was an infuriating attempt on his part to speak as if he were addressing a small, pouting child.

“Anything—anything! The only point is, you'll have to fight to-night—right now. I've two or three friends here who'll see that I get fair play.” said Dickey, discretion flying to the wind.

“You shall fight and here!” exclaimed the Russian. “But you shall fight like a gentleman for once in your life. I will not claw and scratch with you, like the women do, but with any weapon you name.”

Dickey's valor did not fade, but his discretion came to the surface with a suddenness that took his breath away. He turned to speak to Quentin and the millionaire. Phil's face was deathly white, and there was a pleading look in his eyes. The millionaire was trembling like a leaf.

“I guess I'll take pistols,” said Dickey, slowly. “I can't hit the side of a barn, but he can't bluff me, damn him.”

“Great Scott, Dickey! Don't do it, don't do it!” whispered Quentin. “This is my fight, you know it is, and I won't let you—”

“You can't help it, old boy. He'll probably get me, but I may be lucky enough to have a bullet land in him. My only chance is to aim anywhere but at him, shut my eyes, and trust to luck.” Then turning to Kapolski he said, deliberately: “Pistols, and here, if the prince does not object.”

“Cannot this affair be postponed—” began Ugo, desperately.

“Not unless your friend forgets that I punched his head. It is now or never with me,” said Dickey.

“I insist that it is my right to fight this man!” exclaimed Quentin, standing forth. “I first expressed the opinion which Mr. Savage merely echoed and to which Prince Kapolski took exception.”

“But you did not strike me. In any event, you shall come next, Mr. Quentin; I shall take you on immediately after I have disposed of your cockadoodle friend,” said Kapolski, throwing aside his coat. “You have pistols here, Prince Ravorelli?”

“This is murder,” cried the millionaire, “and I shall take it before the United States government.”

“Dickey! Dickey!” cried Phil, helplessly, as Savage began to remove his coat.

“I have weapons, if you insist, gentlemen,” said Ugo. At his words intense excitement prevailed, for now there could be no doubt as to the result of the quarrel. Count Sallaconi hurried away for the pistols, smiling significantly as he passed his prince. His smile said that Kapolski would kill two men that night.

“For God's sake, Dickey, be careful, if you must fight. Take deliberate aim and don't lose your nerve,” cried Quentin, grasping him by the arms. “You are as cold as ice.”

“I haven't fired a pistol more than a dozen times in my life,” said Dickey, smiling faintly.

“Then shoot low,” said the millionaire.

“Your second, Monsieur?” said the Austrian duke, coming to Savage's side.

“Mr. Quentin will act, Monsieur le Duc. We may need a surgeon.”

“Dr. Gassbeck is here.”

It was hurriedly agreed that the men should stand at opposite ends of the room, nearly twenty feet apart, back to back. At the word given by Prince Ugo, they were to turn and fire.

Sallaconi came in with the pistol case and the seconds examined the weapons carefully. A moment later the room was cleared except for the adversaries, the seconds, and Prince Ugo.

There was the stillness of death. On the face of the Russian there was an easy smile, for was not he a noted shot? Had he ever missed an adversary in a duel? Dickey was pale, but he did not tremble as he took the pistol in his hand.

“Good-bye, Phil,” was all he said. Poor Quentin turned his face away as he clasped his hand, and he could only murmur:

“If he hits you, I'll kill him.”

A moment later the word “fire” came and the two men whirled into position. Dickey's arm went up like a flash, the other's more cruelly deliberate. Two loud reports followed in quick succession, the slim American's nervous finger pressed the trigger first. He had not taken aim. He had located his man's position before turning away, and the whole force of his will was bent on driving the bullet directly toward the spot he had in mind. Kapolski's bullet struck the wall above Dickey's head, his deadly aim spoiled by the quick, reckless shot from the other end of the room.

He lunged forward. Dickey's bullet had blown away part of the big Russian's chin and jaw, burying itself in the wall beyond.