out her hand, seized the revolver, and hid it in the folds of her
blouse.

Turning for a final glance at the man she was startled to find he had
removed his hands and was steadfastly regarding her.

Myrtle leaned heavily on her crutches. She felt faint and miserable,
like a criminal caught in the act. As her eyes fell before the intent
gaze her face turned scarlet with humiliation and chagrin. Still, she
did not attempt to escape, the idea not occurring to her; so for a
time the tableau was picturesque--the lame girl standing motionless
with downcast eyes and the man fixedly staring at her.

"Three times!" he slowly said, in a voice finally stirred by a trace
of emotion. "Three times. My child, why are you so persistent?"

Myrtle tried to be brave and meet his gaze. It was not quite so
difficult now the silent man had spoken.

"Why do you force me to be persistent?" she asked, a tremor in her
voice. "Why are you determined to--to--"

Words failed her, but he nodded to show he understood.

"Because," said he, "I am tired; very tired, my child. It's a big
world; too big, in fact; but there's nothing in it for me any more."

There was expression enough in his voice now; expression of utter
despondency.