panic threatened a return.

He dragged himself to the door. Here he paused, since he could not bring
himself to enter, for before his eyes was the ghastly vision of that old
man huddled on the blood-stained floor. He heard the colonel's steps
echo down the long room, and when their sound ceased he knew he was
standing beside the dead man. After what seemed an age of waiting the
steps sounded again, and a moment later the colonel's tall form filled
the doorway.

"Andy!" said the colonel.

Mr. Shrimplin turned with a start. At his back within reach of his hand
stood Andy Gilmore. He had been utterly unaware of the gambler's
approach, but now conscious of it he dropped in a miserable heap on the
door-sill, while the white and unfamiliar world reeled before his
bleached blue eyes; it was the very drunkenness of fear.

"Howdy, Colonel," said the gambler, as he gave Harbison a half-military
salute.

He admired the colonel, who had once threatened to horsewhip him if he
ever permitted his nephew, Watt, to enter his rooms.

"Come here, Andy!" ordered the colonel briefly.

"God's sake, Colonel!" gasped the wretched little lamplighter,
struggling to his feet, "don't leave me here--"

"What's wrong, Colonel?" asked Gilmore.