style="font-size:15px;"> “Not before fighting! I presume you include that in your calculations?”
“Of course I do. We’ll fight, and be in time all the same.”
If Maynard had been a man of delicate susceptibilities he might have reflected on the uncertainty of such a programme.
He merely asked for its explanation.
“Perfectly simple,” responded the Count. “You are to be the challenged party, and, of course, have your choice both of time and weapons. No matter about the weapons. It’s the time that concerns us so.”
“You’d bring off the affair to-day?”
“Would, and will.”
“How if the challenge arrive too late—in the evening say?”
“Carrambo!—to use our old Mexican shibboleth—I’ve thought of that—of everything. The challenge shall come early—must come, if your adversary be a gentleman. I’ve hit upon a plan to force it out of him in good time.”
“Your plan?”
“You’ll write to him—that is, I shall—to say you are compelled to leave Newport to-night; that a matter of grand importance has suddenly summoned you away. Appeal to him, as a man of honour, to send in his invitation at once, so that you may arrange a meeting. If he don’t do so, by all the laws of honour you will be free to go, at any hour you may name.”
“That will be challenging the challenger. Will it be correct?”
“Of course it will. I’ll be answerable. It’s altogether en règle—strictly according to the code.”
“I agree to it, then.”
“Enough! I must set about composing the letter. Being a little out of the common, it will require some thought. Where are your pens and ink?”
Maynard pointed to a table, on which were the writing materials.
Drawing up a chair, Roseveldt seated himself beside it.
Then, taking hold of a pen, and spreading a sheet of “cream laid” before him, he proceeded to write the premonitory epistle, scarce consulting the man most interested in what it might contain. Thinking of the revolution in Baden, he was most anxious to set free his friend from the provoking compromise, so that both might bear the flag of freedom through his beloved fatherland.
The note was soon written; a copy carefully taken, folded up, and shoved into an envelope. Maynard scarce allowed the opportunity of reading it!
It had to be addressed by his directions, and was sent to Mr Richard Swinton, just as the great gong, screaming through the corridors of the Ocean House, proclaimed to its guests the hour for déjeuner à la fourchette.
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