They looked very grave.

"He won't apologize," Miller said. "We arranged that you are to meet
behind the graveyard at sunrise to-morrow morning." I was bitterly
disappointed, but of course I could not let them see that.

"Does Laguerre know?" I asked.

"No," Miller said, "neither does old man Fiske. We had the deuce of a
time. Graham and Lowell--that young Middy from the Raleigh--are his
seconds, and we found we were all agreed that he had better apologize.
Lowell, especially, was very keen that you two should shake hands, but
when they went out to talk it over with Fiske, he came back with them
in a terrible rage, and swore he'd not apologize, and that he'd either
shoot you or see you hung. Lowell told him it was all rot that two
Americans should be fighting duels, but Fiske said that when he was in
Rome, he did as Romans did; that he had been brought up in Paris to
believe in duels, and that a duel he would have. Then the sister came
in, and there was a hell of a row!"

"The sister!" I exclaimed.

Miller nodded, and Von Ritter and he shook their heads sadly at each
other, as though the recollection of the interview weighed heavily.

"Yes, his sister," said Miller. "You know how these Honduranian places
are built, if a parrot scratches his feathers in the patio you can
hear it in every room in the house. Well, she was reading on the
balcony, and when her brother began to rage around and swear he'd have
your blood, she heard him, and opened the shutters and came in. She