"I'll see to it. That collision the other day was serious enough, and
it's gradually becoming a vendetta. Last night one of the Lebanon
champions lost his nose."

"His nose--how?"

"A French river-driver bit a third of it off."

Ingolby made a gesture of disgust. "And this is the twentieth century!"

They had moved along the street until they reached a barber-shop, from
which proceeded the sound of a violin. "I'm going in here," Ingolby
said. "I've got some business with Berry, the barber. You'll keep me
posted as to anything important?"

"You don't need to say it. Shall I see the Master of the Orange Lodge or
the Chief Constable for you?" Ingolby thought for a minute. "No, I'll
tackle them myself, but you get in touch with Monseigneur Lourde. He's
grasped the situation, and though he'd like to have Tripple boiled in
oil, he doesn't want broken heads and bloodshed."

"And Tripple?"

"I'll deal with him at once. I've got a hold on him. I never wanted to
use it, but I will now without compunction. I have the means in my
pocket. They've been there for three days, waiting for the chance."

"It doesn't look like war, does it?" said Rockwell, looking up the
street and out towards the prairie where the day bloomed like a flower.