The Duke of Hereward groaned aloud.  None of his wrongs could have been such a calamity as this!  None of his sufferings could have equalled in intensity of agony this appalling sense of blood-guiltiness!

“Can nothing be done?” he inquired, not with the slightest hope that anything could, but rather in the idiocy of utter despair.

“Nothing.  No medical skill can raise the dead,” solemnly answered the surgeon.

“One of you fellows can bring the railway rug out of our carriage.  I knew it would be needed,” said the serenely practical colonel.

The count’s servant started to obey.

The duke groaned and turned away from the body of his fallen foe, upon which he could not endure longer to gaze.

The Russian baron came up to him, and with the knightly courtesy of his caste and country, said: 

“Monseigneur may rest tranquil.  Everything has been conducted in accordance with the most rigid rules of honor.  The result has been unfortunate for my distinguished principal, but Monseigneur has nothing with which to reproach himself.”

“Thanks, Baron.  You are kind to say so.  Yet I would that I had never lived to see this day; or the worthless woman who has caused this catastrophe!” exclaimed the duke, as he walked hurriedly away and hid himself and his remorse in the inclosure of his own carriage.

There he was soon joined by his serene second, who entered the carriage and gave the order to the coachman;

“Drive to the Depot St. Lazare.”

“Why to the depot?” gloomily inquired the duke, as the coachman closed the door and remounted to his box.

“Because we must get out of Paris—­yes, and out of France also,” calmly replied the colonel, sinking back in his seat as the cab drove off.

“Who is looking after—­after—­”

“The body?  I left Legare to help Blomonozoff and his servant to remove it.  We must get away.  An arrest would not be pleasant.”

“No, no, certainly not; yet not on that account, but for the peace of my own spirit, I would to Heaven this had not happened!” exclaimed the duke.

“Why?  Everything went off most agreeably.  Indeed, this was one of the most satisfactory meetings at which I ever assisted,” said the colonel, comfortably.

“I wish to Heaven it had never taken place!  I would give my right hand to undo its own deed to-day—­if that were possible!” groaned the homicide.

“Why should you disturb yourself?—­but perhaps this is your first affair of the kind?” calmly inquired the colonel.

“My first and last!  I do not know how any one can engage in a second one after feeling what it is to kill a man.”

“You feel so because it is your first affair.  You would not mind your second, and you would rather enjoy your third,” suavely observed the colonel, who then drew a railway card from his pocket, examined it, looked at his watch, and said: