“Why not?” he said to himself, aloud.  “Why not go back?  Seeing the provocation—­they might surely—?” He pursued the idea silently and came to a determination.  Yet the contemplated action was never destined to be performed, for now an accident so trifling as the chance glimmer of a lucifer match contributed to remodel the scheme of his life and wholly shatter immediate resolutions.  Craving a whiff of tobacco, without which he had been since morning, Will lighted his pipe, and the twinkle of flame as he did so showed his face to a man passing across the bridge at that moment.  He stopped in his stride, and a great bellow of wrath escaped him, half savage, half joyful.

“By God!  I didn’t think to meet so soon!”

Here was a red-hot raving Nemesis indeed; and Will, while prepared for a speedy meeting with his enemy, neither expected nor desired an encounter just then.  But it had come, and he knew what was before him.  Grimbal, just returned from a long day’s sport, rode back to his hotel in a good temper.  He drank a brandy-and-soda at the bar, then went up to his rooms and found Phoebe’s letter; whereupon, as he was in muddy pink, he set off straight for Monks Barton; and now he stood face to face with the man on earth he most desired to meet.  By the light of his match Will saw a red coat, white teeth under a great yellow moustache, and a pair of mad, flaming eyes, hungry for something.  He knew what was coming, moved quickly from the parapet of the bridge, and flung away his pipe to free his hands.  As he did so the other was on him.  Will warded one tremendous stroke from a hunting-crop; then they came to close quarters, and Grimbal, dropping his whip, got in a heavy half-arm blow on his enemy’s face before they gripped in holds.  The younger man, in no trim for battle, reeled and tried to break away; but the other had him fast, picked him clean off the ground, and, getting in his weight, used a Yankee throw, with intent to drop Will against the granite of the bridge.  But though Blanchard went down like a child before the attack, he disappeared rather than fell; and in the pitchy night it seemed as though some amiable deity had caught up the vanquished into air.  A sudden pressure of the low parapet against his own legs as he staggered forward, told John Grimbal what was done and, at the same moment, a tremendous splash in the water below indicated his enemy’s dismal position.  Teign, though not in flood at the time, ran high, and just below the bridge a deep pool opened out.  Around it were rocks upon which rose the pillars of the bridge.  No sound or cry followed Will Blanchard’s fall; no further splash of a swimmer, or rustle on the river’s bank, indicated any effort from him.  Grimbal’s first instincts were those of regret that revenge had proved so brief.  His desire was past before he had tasted it.  Then for a moment he hesitated, and the first raving lust to kill Phoebe’s husband waned a trifle before the sudden conviction that he had done so.  He crept down to the river, ploughed about to find the man, questioning what he should do if he did find him.  His wrath waxed as he made search, and he told himself that he should only trample Blanchard deeper into water if he came upon him.  He kicked here and there with his heavy boots; then abandoned the search and proceeded to Monks Barton.