What he said resolved itself into a single articulate word, for all the others were choked in his throat by his surging wrath-- "A duel, Monsieur," he stammered.
Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked down on the choleric little man before him; but not even for a second did he seem to lose his own imperturbable good-humour.

He laughed his own pleasant and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely--"a bloodthirsty young ruffian, Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man?
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As for me, sir, I never fight duels," he added, as he placidly sat down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before him.