"Pistols!" shouted Abbott. "For the love of glory, what are you driving
at?"
"The Barone has asked me to be his second. And I have despatched a note to
the colonel, advising him to attend to your side. I accepted the Barone's
proposition solely that I might get here first and convince you that an
apology will save you a heap of discomfort. The Barone is a first-rate
shot, and doubtless he will only wing you. But that will mean scandal and
several weeks in the hospital, to say nothing of a devil of a row with the
civil authorities. In the army the Italian still fights his duello, but
these affairs never get into the newspapers, as in France. Seldom,
however, is any one seriously hurt. They are excitable, and consequently a
good shot is likely to shoot wildly at a pinch. So there you are, my
boy."
"Are you in your right mind? Do you mean to tell me that you have come
here to arrange a duel?" asked Abbott, his voice low and a bit shaky.
"To prevent one. So, write your apology. Don't worry about the moral side
of the question. It's only a fool who will offer himself as a target to a
man who knows how to shoot. You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with
a shot-gun."
Abbott brushed the dust from his coat and got up. "A duel!" He laughed a
bit hysterically. Well, why not? Since Nora could never be his, there was
no future for him. He might far better serve as a target than to go on
living with the pain and bitterness in his heart. "Very well. Tell the
Barone my choice is pistols. He may set the time and place himself."
"Go over to that desk and write that apology. If you don't, I promise on
my part to tell Nora Harrigan, who, I dare say, is at the bottom of this,
innocently or otherwise."
"Courtlandt!"
"I mean just what I say. Take your choice. Stop this nonsense yourself
like a reasonable human being, or let Nora Harrigan stop it for you. There
will be no duel, not if I can help it."
Abbott saw instantly what would happen. Nora would go to the Barone and
beg off for him. "All right! I'll write that apology. But listen: you will
knock hereafter when you enter any of my studios. You've kicked out the
bottom from the old footing. You are not the friend you profess to be. You
are making me a coward in the eyes of that damned Italian. He will never
understand this phase of it." Thereupon Abbott ran over to his desk and
scribbled the note, sealing it with a bang. "Here you are. Perhaps you had
best go at once."