you were going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it?"
Unmanned, trembling, the other stood—and nodded mechanically.
"It's really not a nice thing to do," said Jimmie Dale confidentially. "Makes a mess, you see, too"—he was pulling off his motor gauntlet, his ulster, his jacket, and, having set the cash box on the desk, was rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. "Had a little experience myself this evening." He held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered with blood. " A little above the wrist—fortunately only a flesh wound—a little memento from a chap named Markel, and"
"Markel!" The word burst, quivering, from the other's lips.
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale imperturbably. "Do you mind if I wash a bit—and could you oblige me with a towel, or something that would do for a bandage?"
The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way, he walked from the desk to a little cupboard, and took out two towels.
Jimmie Dale stooped, while the other's back was turned, picked up the revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket.
"Markel?" said Wilbur again, the same trembling anxiety in his voice, as he handed Jimmie Dale the towels and motioned toward a washstand in the corner of the room. "Did you say Markel—Theodore Markel?"
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale, examining his wound critically.
"You had trouble—a fight with him? Is he—he—dead?"
"No," said Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly. "He's prettly badly hurt, though, I imagine—but not in a physical way."
"Strange!" whispered Wilbur, in a numbed tone to himself; and he went back and sank down in his desk chair. "Strange that you should speak of Markel—strange that you should have come here to-night!"
