at daybreak, in the snow, between Count V and a Russian nobleman, in which the former was shot through the heart.
"'Never got one in at all!' said Hughes, again waxing eloquent on his friend's wrongs. 'I've seen both the seconds since. They were to walk up to a handkerchief, and the Russian potted him at forty yards the first step he made. They may say what they like about the row originating in politics—I know better. They quarrelled because Madame de St. Croix had left V— and taken up with this snub-nosed Tartar. First, she ruined my poor friend. I know all about it. He hadn't a rap left; for if she'd asked him for the shirt off his back, he'd have stripped like beans! Then she broke his heart—the cheeriest, jolliest, kindest fellow in Europe—to finish up by leaving him for another man, who kills him before breakfast without a scruple; and if
