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It was not a corpse, but Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.

Sep had barely time to close to the cabin door, and strike out with his precious bags for the surface. He felt he had had a narrow escape of detection, and that the sooner he sought a change of climate the better.

As for Solomon, it would have needed a strong door to keep him from his prey.

“Ha, ha!” said he, “the chain grows link by link. Two and two make four. Patience, Solomon, and you will be famous yet.”

Chapter VII. THE FETE AND THE FRACAS

It was the most brilliant ball which had ever been given in the English capital.

The very waiters sparkled with diamonds!

The gorgeous suite of apartments, several miles in length, were ablaze with all that wealth and beauty in electric light could effect.

Coote and Tinney’s band was in attendance.

Down the sparkling avenues of lustres whirled the revellers in all the ecstasy of the hilarious dance.

Peals of laughter and the rustling of fans combined to make the scene the most gorgeous ever witnessed in this or any other metropolis.

The host of the princely revel was a mysterious young foreign nobleman, known by the name of the Duc de Septimominorelli, and reputed to be the richest man in Europe.

What makes this evening’s entertainment particularly brilliant is the fact that it is to be graced by the dazzling presence of the peerless Donna Velvetina Peeleretta, who, as every one knows, is shortly to wear the diamond tiara of the house of Septimominorelli.

In other words, she and the Duc are betrothed.

The festivities are at their height, and the Duc for the fifth time is leading his charming fiancee to the supper-room, when the venerable butler announces, in a voice that attracts universal attention, a new arrival.

“Monsieur le Marquis de Smellismelli!”

If possible the Marquis was more magnificently attired even than the Duc, and went through the salutation with the easy grace of a man who had often appeared in Court.

“Who is he?” asked every one.

“An old college friend,” explained the Duc.

But his face was the colour of his handkerchief, and the place shook with the trembling of his limbs.

The marquis quickly made himself at home, and vied with his host in his eagerness to take the Donna Velvetina down to supper.

The Duc’s face darkened visibly in proportion as that of his guest beamed; and to those who looked on, it was evident that a scene was imminent.

At length, when for the nineteenth time the lady accepted the arm of the gallant marquis, the Duc ground his teeth, and stepping up to his rival, pulled his nose.

The marquis in return flung the Duc the entire length of the apartments, and with folded arms calmly awaited the result.

“We fight, Monsieur le Marquis,” ground out the smarting Duc.

“Rather!” replied the marquis, with a proud smile.

Chapter VIII. THE DUEL

It was a tragic end in that night’s gay scene.

Guests whose carriages were not ordered till 4 a.m. stood shivering in the hall at 11 p.m.

Five hours to wait!

Meanwhile, on two special steamers the Duc de Septimominorelli and the Marquis de Smellismelli sought the shore of France.

On the lonely sands between Calais and Ushant the rivals stood face to face, at a hundred paces distance.

They had no seconds, so each loaded the other’s weapon.

It could not have been the wind that made their knees tremble and their teeth chatter, for there was none. Neither could it have been the weight of the pistols which made their hands wave to and fro, for these were Boxer’s eight-ounce Maxim Repeaters.

No; these two men were the subjects of deep physical emotion. The moment had come, and the Duc was about to drop his handkerchief, when the Marquis abruptly folded his arms and said, “Excuse me, we have met before, have we not? Ha, ha, Sep, my boy!”

At the sound of his voice, the so-called Duc flung his weapon two hundred yards in the air, and with the bound of a hunted tiger buried himself in the turmoil of the French capital.