Again his laughter was brief but malignant.  Heywood had left his cards, risen, and crossing the room, stood looking over Rudolph’s shoulder into the snowy moonlight.  On the shoulder his hand rested, as by accident.

“It’s the heat, old chap,” he said wearily.  “Don’t mind what we say to-night.”

Rudolph made no sign, except to move from under his hand, so that, with their quarrel between them, the two men stared out across the blanched roofs and drooping trees, where long black shadows at last crept toward the dawn.

“These heroes!” continued the mocker.  “What is danger?  Pouf—­nothing!  They make it for the rest of us, so easily!  Do you know,” his voice rose and quickened, “do you know, the other end of town is in an uproar?  We murder children, it appears, for medicine!”

Rudolph started, turned, but now sat quiet under Heywood’s grasp.  Chantel, in the lamplight, watched the punkahs with a hateful smile.

“The Gascons are not all dead,” he murmured.  “They plunge us all into a turmoil, for the sake of a woman.”  He made a sudden startling gesture, like a man who has lost control.  “For the sake,” he cried angrily, “of a person we all know!  Oh! we all know her!  She is nothing more—­”

There was a light scuffle at the window.

“Dr. Chantel,” began Heywood, with a sharp and dangerous courtesy, “we are all unlike ourselves to-night.  I am hardly the person to remind you, but this club is hardly the place—­”

“Oh, la la!” The other snapped his fingers, and reverting to his native tongue, finished his sentence wildly.

“You cad!” Heywood advanced in long strides deliberately, as if gathering momentum for a collision.  Before his blow could fall, he was sent spinning.  Rudolph, his cheeks on fire, darted past and dealt, full force, a clumsy backhand sweep of the arm.  Light and quick as a leopard, Chantel was on foot, erect, and even while his chair crashed on the floor, had whipped out a handkerchief.

“You are right, Mr. Heywood,” he said, stanching his lips, in icy composure.  His eyes held an odd gleam of satisfaction.  “You are right.  We are not like ourselves, at present.  I will better ask Mr. Sturgeon to see your friend to-morrow morning.  This morning, rather.”

Not without dignity, he turned, stepped quickly to the stairs, saluted gravely, and went down.

“No, no!” panted Nesbit, wrestling with Rudolph.  “Easy on, now!  Let you go?  No fear!”

Heywood wrenched the captive loose, but only to shake him violently, and thrust him into a chair.

“Be quiet, you little ass!” he scolded.  “I’ve a great mind, myself, to run after the bounder and kick him.  But that sort of thing—­you did enough.  Who’d have thought?  You young spitfire!  Chantel took you on, exactly as he wanted.”

The fat sleeper continued to snore.  Wutzler came slinking back from his refuge in the shadows.