Francis found himself almost immediately upon his feet.  His whole being seemed crying out for interference.  Lady Cynthia’s death-white face and pleading eyes seemed like the echo of his own passionate aversion to what was taking place.  Then he met Sir Timothy’s gaze across the room and he remembered his promise.  Under no conditions was he to protest or interfere.  He set his teeth and resumed his seat.  The fight went on.  There were little sobs and tremors of excitement, strange banks of silence.  Both men seemed out of condition.  The sound of their hoarse breathing was easily heard against the curtain of spellbound silence.  For a time their knives stabbed the empty air, but from the first the end seemed certain.  The Englishman attacked wildly.  His adversary waited his time, content with avoiding the murderous blows struck at him, striving all the time to steal underneath the other’s guard.  And then, almost without warning, it was all over.  Jim was on his back in a crumpled heap.  There was a horrid stain upon his coat.  The other man was kneeling by his side, hate, glaring out of his eyes, guiding all the time the rising and falling of his knife.  There was one more shriek—­then silence only the sound of the victor’s breathing as he rose slowly from his ghastly task.  Sir Timothy rose to his feet and waved his hand.  The curtain went down.

“On deck, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said calmly.

No one stirred.  A woman began to sob.  A fat, unhealthy-looking man in front of Francis reeled over in a dead faint.  Two other of the guests near had risen from their seats and were shouting aimlessly like lunatics.  Even Francis was conscious of that temporary imprisonment of the body due to his lacerated nerves.  Only the clinging of Lady Cynthia to his arm kept him from rushing from the spot.

“You are faint?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Upstairs—­air,” she faltered.

They rose to their feet.  The sound of Sir Timothy’s voice reached them as they ascended the stairs.

“On deck, every one, if you please,” he insisted.  “Refreshments are being served there.  There are inquisitive people who watch my launch, and it is inadvisable to remain here long.”

People hurried out then as though their one desire was to escape from the scene of the tragedy.  Lady Cynthia, still clinging to Francis’ arm, led him to the furthermost corner of the launch.  There were real tears in her eyes, her breath was coming in little sobs.

“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried.  “Horrible!  Mr. Ledsam—­I can’t help it—­I never want to speak to Sir Timothy again!”

One final horror arrested for a moment the sound of voices.  There was a dull splash in the river.  Something had been thrown overboard.  The orchestra began to play dance music.  Conversation suddenly burst out.  Every one was hysterical.  A Peer of the Realm, red-eyed and shaking like an aspen leaf, was drinking champagne out of the bottle.  Every one seemed to be trying to outvie the other in loud conversation, in outrageous mirth.  Lady Isabel, with a glass of champagne in her hand, leaned back towards Francis.