The Englishman attacked
wildly. His adversary waited his time, content with avoiding the
murderous blows struck at him, striving all the time to steal
underneath the other's guard. And then, almost without warning,
it was all over. Jim was on his back in a crumpled heap. There
was a horrid stain upon his coat. The other man was kneeling by
his side, hate, glaring out of his eyes, guiding all the time the
rising and falling of his knife. There was one more shriek--then
silence only the sound of the victor's breathing as he rose
slowly from his ghastly task. Sir Timothy rose to his feet and
waved his hand. The curtain went down.
"On deck, if you please, ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly.
No one stirred. A woman began to sob. A fat, unhealthy-looking
man in front of Francis reeled over in a dead faint. Two other
of the guests near had risen from their seats and were shouting
aimlessly like lunatics. Even Francis was conscious of that
temporary imprisonment of the body due to his lacerated nerves.
Only the clinging of Lady Cynthia to his arm kept him from
rushing from the spot.
"You are faint?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Upstairs--air," she faltered.
They rose to their feet. The sound of Sir Timothy's voice
reached them as they ascended the stairs.
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