He fired first from the hip, and the shot shattered the mirror of the dressing-table.  Trying for better aim, he lifted and levelled the weapon with a trembling arm which he sought to steady by cupping the elbow in his left hand.  But the second bullet ploughed into the ceiling as Lanyard in desperation executed a coup de pied in la savate, and narrowly succeeded in kicking the pistol from Dupont’s grasp.

Bereft thus of his last hope—­they were too evenly matched, and both too far spent for either to force a victory with his naked hands—­the Apache swung round and ran, at the same time throwing a heavy chair over on its back in the path of pursuit.  Unable to avoid it, Lanyard tried to hurdle it, caught a foot on one of its legs and, as Dupont threw himself headlong down the stairs, crashed to the floor with an impact that shook its beams.

Main will-power lifted him to his knees before he collapsed, his last ounce of endurance wasted.  Then the woman, with flying draperies, a figure like a fury, sped to the banister rail and leaning over emptied the several shots remaining in Dupont’s automatic down the well of the staircase.  It is doubtful if she saw anything to aim at or accomplished more than to wing the Apache’s flight.  Dupont had gained the second storey while Lanyard was still fighting up from his fall.  The last report and the crash of the front door slammed behind Dupont were as one heartbeat to the next.

Lanyard pillowed his head on a forearm and lay sobbing for breath.  Liane Delorme turned and ran to the front of the house.

Presently she came back drooping, sank into a chair and with lacklustre eyes regarded the man at her feet.

“He got away,” she said superfluously, in a faint voice.  “I saw him in the street ... staggering like a sot...”

At that moment Lanyard could not have mustered a show of interest had he been told Dupont was returning at the head of a horde.  He closed his tired eyes and envied the lucky dead whose rest was independent of bruised flesh and aching bones.  Neither, he supposed, were dreams poisoned by chagrin when what was mortal no longer mattered....  Three times had he come to grips with Dupont and, though he had been outnumbered on the road to Nant, in Lanyard’s sight the honours were far from easy.  Neither would they be while yet the other lived or was at large...

The bitterness of failure and defeat had so rank a flavour in his thoughts that nothing else in life concerned him now.  He had forgotten Liane Delorme for minutes when her arm passed beneath his shoulders and tried to lift them from the floor.  He looked up then with listless eyes, and saw her on one knee by his side, giving him in his turn that confident and reassuring smile with which he had greeted her reviving senses ... a long, long time ago, it seemed.

“Come!” she said—­“sit up, monsieur, and take this drink.  It will lend you strength.  You need it.”