The Hungarian, in the Continental, was drinking his coffee in his room when his friends found him. He listened to what they had to say coolly. His eye-glass gave him an air of full dress even at this early hour. Poniotowsky had not fallen into a deep sleep and had a dream as Dan Blair had—indeed he had only reached his rooms the night before when a letter had been brought him from Miss Lane. He was used to her caprices, which were countless, and he never left her with any certainty that he should see her again, or with any idea of what her next move would be. The letter read:

“It’s no use. I just can’t. I’ve always told you so, and I mean it. I’m tired out—I want to go away and never see any one again. I want to die. I shall be dead next year, and I don’t care. Please leave me alone and don’t come to see me, and for heaven’s sake don’t bore me with notes.”

When Poniotowsky received this note he had shrugged, and decided that if he lived after his duel with the young savage he would go to see the actress, taking a jewel or a gift—he would get her a Pomeranian dog, and all would be well. He listened coolly to what his friends had to say.

“C’est un enfant,” one of them remarked sneeringly.

“In my mind, he is a coward,” said the other.

“On the contrary,” answered Poniotowsky coolly, “he shoots to perfection. You will be surprised to hear that I admire his refusal. I accept his decision, as his skill is unquestioned with arms. I choose to look upon this reply as an apology. I would like to have you inform Mr. Blair of this fact. He’s young enough to be my son, and he is a barbarian. The incident is closed.”

He put Letty Lane’s note in his pocket, and leisurely prepared to go out on the Rue de Castiglione to buy her a Pomeranian dog.