“And how did you sleep?” asked Ugo, after he had expressed his sorrow over the little unpleasantry of the night before, deploring the tragic ending to the night of pleasure.

“Like a top,” lied Dickey, cheerfully.

“I was afraid the excitement might have caused you great uneasiness and—­ah—­dread,” said the prince.  The count was industriously engaged in piercing with his glittering eyes the tapestry in a far corner of the room.  Mr. Savage possessed the manner of a man who shoots someone every morning before breakfast.

“Not in the least; did it, Quentin?”

“He slept like a baby.”

“By the way, before I forget it, Prince Ugo, how is the gentleman I shot last night—­ah, what was his name?” asked Dickey, slapping his leg carelessly with his walking stick

“Prince Kapolski is in the hospital, and I fear he cannot recover,” said the prince.  “I came to tell you this that you may act accordingly and with all the haste possible.”

“O, I don’t know why I should run away.  Everybody there will testify that the fight was forced upon me.  You will swear to that, yourself, Prince Ugo, and so will the count.  I had to fight, you know.”

“It seems to me, Mr. Savage, that you were rather eager to fight.  I cannot vouch for your safety if the prince dies,” said Ugo, coolly.

“But he isn’t going to die.  I did not shoot to kill and the ball hit him just where I intended it should—­on the chin.  He’ll be well in a couple of weeks.  True, he may not feel like eating tough beefsteak with that jaw for some time, but I knew a fellow once who was able to eat very comfortably after six weeks.  That was as good a shot as I ever made, Phil,” said Dickey, reflectively.

“I think Buckner’s nose was a cleaner shot.  It wasn’t nearly so disgusting,” said Phil.

“Do you mean to say you are able to hit a man just where you please?” demanded the count.

“Provided he does not hit me first,” said Mr. Savage.  “Gentlemen, let me order up a quiet little drink.  I am afraid the unfortunate affair of last night has twisted your nerves a bit.  It was rather ghastly, wasn’t it?”

When the four parted company in front of the hotel, a quarter of an hour later, the two Italians sat down to reflect.  They wondered whether Mr. Savage usually carried a pistol in his pocket, and they agreed that if he did have one of his own he would be much more accurate with it than with a strange one, such as he had used the night before.  The two Americans were not jubilant as they strolled up the street.  They had put on a very bold front but they were saying to themselves that Kapolski’s death would be a very disastrous calamity.  Cold perspiration stood on Dickey’s brow and he devoutly prayed that his victim would recover.

“I’d feel like a butcher to the last day of my life,” he groaned.