"These heroes!" continued the mocker. "What is danger? Pouf--nothing!
They make it for the rest of us, so easily! Do you know," his voice rose
and quickened, "do you know, the other end of town is in an uproar? We
murder children, it appears, for medicine!"

Rudolph started, turned, but now sat quiet under Heywood's grasp.
Chantel, in the lamplight, watched the punkahs with a hateful smile.

"The Gascons are not all dead," he murmured. "They plunge us all into a
turmoil, for the sake of a woman." He made a sudden startling gesture,
like a man who has lost control. "For the sake," he cried angrily, "of a
person we all know! Oh! we all know her! She is nothing more--"

There was a light scuffle at the window.

"Dr. Chantel," began Heywood, with a sharp and dangerous courtesy, "we
are all unlike ourselves to-night. I am hardly the person to remind you,
but this club is hardly the place--"

"Oh, la la!" The other snapped his fingers, and reverting to his native
tongue, finished his sentence wildly.

"You cad!" Heywood advanced in long strides deliberately, as if
gathering momentum for a collision. Before his blow could fall, he was
sent spinning. Rudolph, his cheeks on fire, darted past and dealt, full
force, a clumsy backhand sweep of the arm. Light and quick as a leopard,
Chantel was on foot, erect, and even while his chair crashed on the
floor, had whipped out a handkerchief.

"You are right, Mr. Heywood," he said, stanching his lips, in icy