As his vision darkened, Lucien heaved himself upward to unbalance his attacker, then jerked his knee toward Mirkin's groin. The other man's instinctive recoil gave Lucien the chance to break away. Cat-quick, he leaped to his feet and caught his enemy's head from behind. With one savage twist, he broke Mirkin's neck.

After the hideous snap, all was silent save for Lucien's ragged breathing. He let Mirkin's limp body crumple to the ground, then stepped back and wiped the sweat from his forehead with one wrist. "In a way you did me a favor, Harry," he panted. "I dislike coldblooded killing, but for self-defense, I feel no remorse at all."

Men were starting to come from the nearby houses, drawn by the sound of Jimmy's shot. It must have been no more than three or four minutes since Mirkin and his brother had accosted him.

Long enough to kill two men.

Half a dozen neighbors arrived bearing lanterns. One, an acquaintance of Lucien's named Winterby, exclaimed, "My God, Strathmore's been injured. Send for a physician!"

Lucien looked down and saw that his fawn-colored cloak was saturated with crimson. "No need-the blood isn't mine."

"What happened?"

"Two footpads attacked me." Lucien bent and picked up his hat. Now that the crisis was over, he was shaking with reaction. It had been a near thing, a very near thing.

"Shocking that a man ain't safe even in Mayfair," someone said indignantly.

A thin man who had knelt and examined the bodies gave Lucien a strange look. "They're both dead."

"Fortunately, I had my sword stick." Lucien retrieved the two sections of his cane. After wiping the blade clean on his ruined cloak, he screwed the handle back onto the base.

The thin man glanced down at Mirkin, whose eyes stared glassily and whose neck was bent at a strange, impossible angle. "Very fortunate," he said dryly.

Another voice murmured, "No wonder they call him Lucifer."