Felton and Van Zandt proceed silently into the thicket. A short distance from the entrance to the woods is a cleared spot.
"This will probably suit our purpose," remarks Felton, and, coolly, he measures off ten paces.
"That will be distance enough, will it not?" he asks. Van Zandt nods.
"Will you give the word, Mr. Van Zandt?"
"As you please. We will fire at the word 'Three.'" Both men draw their revolvers.
"One moment," interrupts Felton. "In the event of a second fire?"
"There will be no second fire," is the grim rejoinder. "I shall kill you with the first."
"And I will endeavor not to waste mine. Well, sir, I am waiting."
"One!" Two arms are raised, and not a tremor in either.
"Two!" The pistols click.
The word "Three" is trembling on Van Zandt's lips, when a shot rings out from the thicket. Felton clasps his hand to his abdomen, with an exclamation of pain, sways a moment and pitches headlong to the earth.
The bushes part and a woman, heavily veiled, steps forth, smoking pistol in hand and walks to where Felton lies.
She looks upon the body for a moment in silence, and hisses:
"You cowardly hound! Your end is fitting!" Then, throwing back her veil, she reveals the face of Isabel Harding.
"I have saved you, Phillip," she says, with a calmness that is very near madness.
"You have cheated me of my vengeance," he replies, looking gloomily upon the body of her victim.
"My wrongs called for greater vengeance than yours," cries the woman, her eyes glittering feverishly and her voice breaking hysterically. "I followed him here. I saw through the cafe window your meeting with him, and I exulted that I was in time—in time to save the
