If I were commissioned to tell 'em outright--'The youngster can't
fence'--why, we might save the day. But our man won't even listen to
that. Fight's the word. Chantel will see, on the spot, directly they
face. But will that stop him? No fear: he's worked up to the pitch of
killing. He'll lunge first, and be surprised afterward.--So regrettable!
Such remorse!--Oh, I know _him!_"

The Cockney fidgeted for a time. His face--the face of a street-bred
urchin--slowly worked into lines of abnormal cunning.

"I say! I was thinking," he ventured at last. "Two swords, that's all?
Just so. Now--my boy used to be learn-pidgin at Chantel's. Knows that
'ouse inside out--loafs there now, the beggar, with Chantel's cook. Why
not send him over--prowling, ye know--fingers the bric-a-brac, bloomin'
ass, and breaks a sword-blade. Perfectly netch'ral. 'Can secure, all
plopah,' Accident, ye know. All off with their little duel. What?"

Heywood chuckled, and bowed his head to the horse-clippers.

"Last week," he replied. "Not to-day. This afternoon's rather late for
accidents. You make me feel like Pompey on his galley: 'This thou
shouldst have done, and not have spoken on't,'--Besides, those swords
belonged to Chantel's father. He began as a gentleman.--But you're a
good sort, Nesbit, to take the affair this fashion."

Lost in smoke, the clerk grumbled that the gory affair was unmentionable
nonsense.

"Quite," said Heywood. "We've tried reasoning. No go. As you say, an
accident. That's all can save the youngster now. Impossible, of course."