Edward Boltwood

“ Eh?"
"You are not hurt? You are not—?" Drake straightened himself, and brought his fist down on the desk. "Then, what was all this precious nonsense?" he demanded, sullenly; "a joke?" He pulled up his shoulders. "Your humor is delicate."
"Well, that is as it may be," retorted Wroxeter. "My humor is my own. So, if you will allow the conceit, is my wife. Madelon!"
She advanced out of the gloom into the ring of light. Drake could not meet her blazing eyes.
"You have the base and evil heart of a coward," said she.
"A coward!" Drake's shrill voice belied his defiant swagger. ”

“ Drake caught his forearm. "Remember the broken wine-glass—the skin is cut."
"By God! that's so! Thank you, Ellis." Wroxeter's mechanical laugh grated, and he took a fresh grip on his wrist. "The devil is in the mess. I wonder—well, I must ask your help, my friend." He laughed again, more softly than before.
In Drake's fingers, the futile tissue-paper still fluttered, as he folded and refolded it, corner to corner. Wroxeter wrinkled his forehead, perplexed. "I must ask your help, Ellis," he echoed.
"My part is to help—mine!" cried Madelon, springing forward. ”

“ Madelon touched the metal with a venturesome finger.
"What is it called?" she asked.
Wroxeter caressed the hilt in his palm. "The name can't be translated politely," he said. "'Love knife,' perhaps, will serve."
"Love knife?" repeated Madelon, wide-eyed.
"Yes. They come usually in pairs, like dueling pistols. One you give to your adversary, and with the other——"
"An affectionate title for such a weapon," said Drake, preparing to roll a cigarette. "'Love' seems hardly appropriate."
"Why not? In Turkestan, the duello is rare, except when two men love the same woman. ”