"It usually is, sir. Much more so than in Europe." The others
looked at him inquiringly. "I mean that in America when two men
pull their revolvers and go to shooting at each other, some one
is killed--frequently both. In Europe, as I understand it, a
scratch with a sword ends the combat."

"You have been misinformed," exclaimed Uncle Caspar, his eyebrows
elevated.

"Why, Uncle Caspar has fought more duels than he can count,"
cried the girl, proudly.

"And has he slain his man every time?" asked Grenfall, smilingly,
glancing from one to the other. Aunt Yvonne shot a reproving
look at the girl, whose face paled instantly, her eyes going
quickly in affright to the face of her uncle.

"God!" Lorry heard the old gentleman mutter. He was looking at
his bill of fare, but his eyes were fixed and staring. The card
was crumpling between the long, bony fingers. The American
realized that a forbidden topic had been touched upon.

"He has fought and he has slain," he thought as quick as a flash,
"He is no butcher, no gardener, no cobbler. That's certain!"

"Tell us, Uncle Caspar, what you said to the conductor," cried
the young lady, nervously.

"Tell them, Caspar, how alarmed we were," added soft-voiced Aunt
Yvonne. Grenfall was a silent, interested spectator. He somehow