introductions, drew his wife on to the seat next to him, and whispered to her.
At fifteen minutes to two (we adduced the figures later by comparing notes) two strangers in high silk toppers walked up to Dick, saying: "It's time. Monsieur."
Dick nodded, rose, bent over his wife and kissed her on the mouth. Then he shook hands all around, and with some more adieux walked away with his friends. We saw him seated in a cabriolet, then leave it abruptly.
"Victoire, my love, I am so sorry," he said, rushing back and covering his wife's face with kisses "so sorry to leave you."
One more lingering kiss and he was gone.
Half an hour later Mark and I passed by Dalziel's News Bureau, as a man came out of the counting room to paste up "the latest."
"Let's see what it is," said Mark. "Maybe King Leopold is dead, and I mustn't miss putting on court mourning for HIM." This is what we read on the bulletin-board:
"Monsieur Richard Benet, the editor of Dalziel's, was killed in a duel with at 2:15 this afternoon. R.I.P."
Mark was visibly affected. "That poor woman," he kept saying; "a stroke out of the blue. But Dick felt that he was taking leave of her for good; that accounts for his repeated: 'I'm so sorry.'" And much more to that effect.
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