There was a little shiver amongst the audience.  Francis, almost to his horror, was unable to resist the feeling of queer excitement which stole through his veins.  A few yards away, Lady Isabel seemed to have become transformed.  She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes glowing, her lips parted, rejuvenated, dehumanised.  Francis’ immediate companion, however, rather surprised him.  Her eyes were fixed intently upon Sir Timothy’s.  She seemed to have been weighing every word he had spoken.  There was none of that hungry pleasure in her face which shone from the other woman’s and was reflected in the faces of many of the others.  She seemed to be bracing herself for a shock.  Sir Timothy looked over his shoulder towards the door which opened upon the sanded space.

“You can bring your men along,” he directed.

One of the attendants promptly made his appearance.  He was holding tightly by the arm a man of apparently thirty years of age, shabbily dressed, barefooted, without collar or necktie, with a mass of black hair which looked as though it had escaped the care of any barber for many weeks.  His complexion was sallow; he had high cheekbones and a receding chin, which gave him rather the appearance of a fox.  He shrank a little from the lights as though they hurt his eyes, and all the time he looked furtively back to the door, through which in a moment or two his rival was presently escorted.  The latter was a young man of stockier build, ill-conditioned, and with the brutal face of the lowest of his class.  Two of his front teeth were missing, and there was a livid mark on the side of his cheek.  He looked neither to the right nor to the left.  His eyes were fixed upon the other man, and they looked death.

“The gentleman who first appeared,” Sir Timothy observed, stepping up into the sanded space but still half facing the audience, “is Guiseppe, the Lothario of this little act.  The other is Jim, the wronged husband.  You know their story.  Now, Jim,” he added, turning towards the Englishman, “I put in your trousers pocket these notes, two hundred pounds, you will perceive.  I place in the trousers pocket of Guiseppe here notes to the same amount.  I understand you have a little quarrel to fight out.  The one who wins will naturally help himself to the other’s money, together with that other little reward which I imagine was the first cause of your quarrel.  Now ... let them go.”

Sir Timothy resumed his seat and leaned back in leisurely fashion.  The two attendants solemnly released their captives.  There was a moment’s intense silence.  The two men seemed fencing for position.  There was something stealthy and horrible about their movements as they crept around one another.  Francis realised what it was almost as the little sobbing breath from those of the audience who still retained any emotion, showed him that they, too, foresaw what was going to happen.  Both men had drawn knives from their belts.  It was murder which had been let loose.