“All at once the dispute became vehement.  The more stylishly attired man disappeared, but returned instantly with a drawn sword in his hand.  The stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two fought fiercely.  By Jove, it was no stage combat or French duel.  They went for each other as if they meant it.  There was no stopping to take breath, nor drawing apart after a foiled attack.  Each man tried to kill the other as speedily as possible.  Three times they circled round in furious sword-play.  Then the stranger got his point home.  The other, in mortal agony, dropped his weapon, and tried with both hands to tear his adversary’s blade from his breast.  He failed, and staggered back, the victor still shoving the claymore through his opponent’s body.  Then, and not until then, I saw the face of the man who was wounded, probably killed.  It was my cousin, Alan Hume-Fraser.”

David Hume stopped again.  His bronzed face was pale now.  With his left hand he swept huge drops of perspiration from his brow.  But his class demands coolness in the most desperate moments.  He actually struck a match and relighted his cigarette.

“I suppose you occasionally have a nightmare after an indigestible supper, Mr. Brett,” he went on, “and have experienced a peculiar sensation of dumb palsy in the presence of some unknown but terrifying danger?  Well, such was my exact state at that moment.  Alan fell, apparently lifeless.  The stranger kissed his blood-stained sword, which required a strong tug before he could disengage it, rattled it back into the scabbard, rejoined his companion, and the two rode off, without once looking back.  I can see them now, square-shouldered, with hair tied in a knot beneath their quaint hats, their hips absurdly swollen by the huge pockets of their coats, their boots hanging over their knees.  They wore big brass spurs with tremendous rowels, and the cantles of their saddles were high and brass-bound.

“Alan lay motionless.  I could neither speak nor move.  Whether I was sitting or standing I cannot tell you, nor do I know how I was supposed to be attired, A darkness came over my eyes.  Then a voice—­Helen’s voice—­whispered to me, ‘Fear not, dearest; the wrong is avenged.’  I awoke, to find the trembling butler shouting in my ear that his master was lying dead outside the house.  Now, Mr. Brett, I ask you, would you have submitted that fairy tale to a jury?  I was quite assured of a verdict in my favour, though the first disagreement almost shook my faith in Helen’s promise, but I did not want to end my days in a criminal lunatic asylum.”

He did not appear to expect an answer.  He was quite calm again, and even his eyes had lost their intensity.  The mere telling of his uncanny experience had a soothing effect.  He nonchalantly readjusted his watch and chain, and noted the time.

“I have gone far beyond my stipulated half hour,” he said, forcing a deprecatory smile.