--You, Naida--you shall be
first--"
Naida was suddenly swung on one side, and the shot which rang out passed
through Nigel's coat sleeve, grazing his wrist,--the only shot that was
fired. Prince Shan, watching for his moment, as his two attendants threw
themselves upon the madman from behind, himself sprang forward, knocked
Immelan's right hand up with a terrible blow, and sent the revolver
crashing to the ground. It was a matter of a few seconds. Immelan, when
he felt himself seized, scarcely struggled. The courage of his madness
seemed to pass, the venom died out of his face, he shook like a man in
an ague. Prince Shan kicked the revolver on one side and looked
scornfully down upon him, now a nerveless wreck.
"Immelan," he said, "it is a pity that you did not wait until to-morrow
morning. You would then have known the truth. You are no more poisoned
than I am. If you had been in China--well, who knows? In England there
is so much prejudice against the taking of a worthless life that as a
guest I subscribed to it and mixed a little orris-root tooth powder
with your vermouth."
The man's eyes suddenly opened. He was feverishly, frantically anxious.
"Tell me that again," he shrieked. "You mean it? Swear that you mean
it."
Prince Shan's gesture as he turned away was one of supreme contempt.
"A Shan," he said, "never needs to repeat."
There was the bustle of arriving police, the story of a revolver which
had gone off by accident, a very puzzling contretemps expounded for
their benefit.
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