my dear, unless you prefer to wait upon yourself, you will permit my

clumsy fingers to act the lady’s -maid. That tempting little bodice must

be unhooked. Yes. Now.”

The wine mounted to his brain as he lurched toward her.

“Have pity!” she pleaded.

“It is you who are cruel,” he said. “Your beauty tortures me. Must I

take you without consent? It will be worse for your mother if I do.

Come here, you ravishing devil, and let me kiss you down to Hell.”

“What are you bound for now.”

These words were rapped out in a cold voice behind him.

The Squire, who had seized the girl in his strong embrace, swung

around, as what he saw drained the blood from his heated cheeks. He

stood there swaying, ashen pale, with terror in his eyes. He seemed

incapable of movement, but just stared at the two cloaked figures who

were standing there with drawn swords.

For the moment Imogene could not believe her sight. She had

forgotten the secret panel. The mysterious appearance of her lover and

his friend to her was something of the supernatural. Doctor Syn saw

that the Squire was equally mystified, and calmly he set him right.

“We are no ghosts, my Bully”, he said icily. “Indeed, you will find

us very flesh and blood. You have insulted us both. You will fight us

both, though something tells me there will be no need for Mr. Cobtree to

engage you. You are a bully, a coward, a liar and a cheat. And you

will fight now, and in this room, which you have so carefully left

undisturbed till dawn.”

With an effort the Squire seemed to shake his huge body into some

confidence. He knew at least that he was a match for most in a duel.

“May I ask,” he said coldly, “the name of the servant who has

betrayed my secret panel to you, parson? For after I have dealt with

you, with both of you, I shall deal with him. I pay good wages for

services, but only death for betrayal.”

“It is not your servants, but your sins, that have betrayed you,”

went on Doctor Syn. “I wonder now if you recollect among your victims a

certain lovely girl called Esther Sommers. Ah; I see you do. She died

of the shame she suffered at your hands. Since God is shortly to judge

you for that, I will not dwell on that girl’s tragedy. But I wish to

point out your own

- 38 -

stupidity. You did not know that Charles Herman was her uncle, did you?”

“And who the hell is he?” demanded the Squire.

“The cabinet-maker and locksmith who repaired this panel behind me,”

explained Syn. “You were very stupid not to see that he destroyed the

mold from which he made the key to the water -gate. From it he made

another key, and gave it to the father of Esther Sommers. We have made

good use of that key tonight. You see, there comes a time when the most

evil man an mock God no more.”

“Don’t preach, but fight!” cried the Squire.

“I shall be at your service in a moment, sir” replied Syn. He

turned to Imogene, who had been so overcome with grief that she

had been unable to move. “My beloved, thank God, Who guided us

here to rescue you in time.”

As she flung herself sobbing into his arms, the Squire took

three swift strides towards a cabinet on which lay his case of

pistols. But Tony Cobtree was there first, with his sword at

the other’s breast.

“Take your hand from that box, sir” he cried, “or by God I’ll

spit you like an ox! Get back!”

“I was merely preparing for the fight, sir. You may examine

the pistols if you wish.

“We fight with steel,” said Syn finally. He then turned

again to Imogene and added, “Do you know where your mother is,

so that we may relieve her of anxiety?”

“Yes,” replied Imogene. “Let us go to her at once. And

then, Christopher, let us go and leave this devil. Let us leave

him to the law to deal with. Why should you risk your life?”

“Because I believe that God has appointed me to kill him.”

He then looked at this friend and added, “Tony, do you take

Imogene to her mother, for I have my duty here, which will be no

sight for ladies.”

Tony shook his head. “I am sorry, old friend. But, knowing

the man’s reputation, I feel obligated too stay here and see

fair fight.”

“This is my home, gentlemen,” cried the Squire. “And I’ll

brook your insults no longer. Let us either hear the clash of

steel or the crack of artillery, and be done with it. Then I

shall be at liberty to enjoy the fresh beauty of this ravisher.”

In two strides Syn was at him, and with all his strength he

smote him on his unhealed wound upon the jaw, cutting it open

till the blood fell in a red cascade upon his cravat.

“I’ll kill you for this!” hissed the Squire.

- 39 -

“I ask nothing better than that you should try,” replied the parson.

There was no question of Imogene’s mother then, for the Squire

unhooked two dueling -swords from above the fireplace and placed them,

hilts from him, on the gaming table.

“Choose!” he cried.

“I choose my own sword to kill you with,” replied the parson. “It

was returned to me by a man of Romney Marsh who took it from my father’s

dead hand at Culloden Field. Your own blade may be the longer, for all

I care, but I fight you with my father’s sword. Are you afra id at last?

It is the first time you have met a better man?”

Now, for his father’s sword Syn had a great affection. As a matter

of sentiment he had not only kept it clean and sharp, but he had trained

his hand to use it as his father’s son, and despite his cloth of peace

he had taken it daily to the fencing -school for exercise. Thus it was

that the Squire of Iffley was unpleasantly surprised when, having

selected a weapon to match his opponent’s, he found a blade opposing him

that proved a brain within its temper.

It may have been a full minute that the blades slithered and clanked,

but in that minute the Squire knew that he would have to use his utmost

skill and be aided by fortune in order to break down the other’s guard.

He therefore called a halt by crying out:

“A moment, Mister Parson. If we are fighting to the death and in my

house, I would wish that all things were fair. I see you know something

of fence. Well, as sportsmen let us enjoy the other’s skill before one

of us shall fall. Suppos e we both remove our coats and vests, roll up

our sleeves, drink our last drink, maybe, and fall to it again?”

“As you wish, sir,” replied the parson, and then to Imogene, “We

shall not keep your dear mother long in suspense. In a few minutes she

will be avenged.”

Meanwhile Cobtree had taken advantage of the break to better the

dueling space. He pulled aside the big gaming-table, and placed the

movable candelabras facing one another in the centre of the room. This,

with the help of the hanging chandeliers, concentrated the light into

the centre of the oak floor. He then rolled aside the heavy rugs, and

was about to move the wine-table when the Squire interrupted.

“We will drink before we fight,” he said. “Although there is nothing

but hate between us, I will at least offer you that much hospitality. I

would see no one bound for hell or heaven lacking a drink.”

“For us, sir, no,” replied Syn, who had already stripped himself of

coat and vest and clerical cravat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Mr.

Cobtree and myself are only in the habit of drinking with gentlemen.

From your appearance you have drunk already more than is good for you

safety, and if you will permit me to preach one more to your advantage,