Perhaps a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the shooting, but
Jarvis Hammon still sat in the big chair. He was breathing
quietly. Bob Wharton stood beside him.

"John!" The iron-master smiled pallidly as his friend came and
knelt beside him. "You got here quickly."

"Are you badly hurt, Jarvis?"

"The damned thing is in here somewhere." Hammon took his hand away
from his breast, and Merkle saw that the fingers were bloody. "Can
you get me out of here quietly?"

John Merkle rose to his full height, his lips writhed back from
his teeth. Harshly he inquired: "Where is that woman?"

"She's back yonder, in her room," Bob told him. "She's ill."

Merkle turned, but, reading his intent, Hammon checked him, crying
in a strong voice: "None of that, John. I did it myself. It was
an--accident."

"I don't believe it."

Hammon's eyes met those of his accuser; the two stared at each
other steadily for a moment.

"It's true."