“Count me out!” laughed the latter.  “Not in my line, don’t you know, since I joined the retired list!”

“However, there’s Steele,” Sir Charles, pipe in hand, remarked.

Ronsdale had stepped to the girl’s side; his eyes, regarding her in the least degree too steadily, shone with a warmer gleam.  She appeared either not to notice, or to mind; with look unreservedly bright, she smiled back at him; then her gaze met John Steele’s.

“Do you use the foils, Mr. Steele?”

He moved forward; Lord Ronsdale stood near her, bending over with a slightly proprietary air.

“I—­” Steele looked at them, at the girl’s questioning eyes.  “Only a little!”

“Then you must try conclusions with Lord Ronsdale!” called out Sir Charles.  “As victor over the rest he must meet all comers.”

A light swept John Steele’s face; perhaps the situation appealed to a certain sense of humor; he hesitated.

“Nothing to be put out by, being beaten by Ronsdale,” interposed an observer.  “Had the reputation of being one of the best swordsmen on the continent; has even had, I believe,” with a laugh, “one or two little affairs of honor.”

“Honor!” Steele’s glance swung around, played brightly on the nobleman.

The latter’s face remained impassive; he lifted his foil carelessly and swung it; the hiss that followed might have been construed as a challenge.  John Steele tossed aside his coat.

“Can’t promise this contest will be as interesting as the other little affairs you speak of!” he laughed.  Through the fine, white linen of his shirt could be discerned the superb swell and molding of the muscles, as he now, with the gleaming toy in hand, stood before Ronsdale.

The latter’s eyes suddenly narrowed; a covert expectancy made itself felt in his manner.  “Aren’t you going to roll up your sleeve?” he asked softly.  “Usually find it gives greater freedom of movement, myself.”

Steele did not at once reply; in his eyes bent on Ronsdale a question seemed to flash; then a bolder, more daring light replaced it.  “Perhaps you are right!” he said coolly, and following the nobleman’s example he pushed back his sleeve.  The action revealed the splendid arm of the perfectly-trained athlete marked, however, by a great scar extending from just above the wrist to the elbow.  Lord Ronsdale’s eyes fastened on it; his lips moved slightly but if any sound fell from them, it was rendered inaudible by Sir Charles’ exclamation: 

“Bad jab, that, Steele!  Looks as if it might have been made by an African spear!”

“No.”  John Steele smiled, encountering other glances, curious, questioning.  “Can’t include the land of ivory among the countries I’ve been in,” he added easily.

Lord Ronsdale breathed quickly.  “Recent wound, I should say.”

“Not very old,” said John Steele.

“If there’s a good story back of it, we’ll have it later,” Captain Forsythe remarked.