pleasure-grounds, long forgotten, and now used only by grotesque
play-actors. He must die, in both action and setting, without dignity.
It was some comfort, he became aware, to find that the place was fairly
private. Except for the breach by which they had entered, the blotched
and spotted compound walls stood ruinous yet high, shutting out all but
a rising slant of sunlight, and from some outpost line of shops, near
by, the rattle of an abacus and the broken singsong of argument, now
harsh, now drowsy.

Heywood had been speaking earnestly to Sturgeon:--

"A little practice--try the balance of the swords. No more than fair."

"Fair? Most certainly," croaked that battered convivialist. "Chantel
can't object."

He rose, and waddled down the path. Rudolph saw Chantel turn, frowning,
then nod and smile. The nod was courteous, the smile full of satire. The
fat ambassador returned.

"Right-oh," he puffed, tugging from the baize cover a shining pair of
bell-hilted swords. "Here, try 'em out." His puffy eyes turned furtively
toward Rudolph. "May be bad form, Hackh, but--we all wish you luck, I
fancy." Then, in a burst of candor, "Wish that unspeakable ass felt as
seedy as I do--heat-stroke--drop dead--that sort of thing."

Still grumbling treason, this strange second rejoined his principal.

"Jackets off," commanded Heywood; and in their cinglets, each with sword
under arm, the two friends took shelter behind a ragged clump of