Merkle took a step and stooped for the revolver which had lain
unnoticed until this moment. He held it in his hand.

"This isn't your gun," he said, quietly.

"No. It's hers. We had a quarrel. I--She intended to use it on
herself. We fought for it--and in the struggle I set it off."

The other occupants of the room had listened breathlessly; now
Lorelei stirred and Merkle read more than mere bewilderment in her
face. He opened his lips, but the wounded man did not wait for him
to speak.

"You MUST believe me!" he said, earnestly. "It's the truth, and I
won't have Lilas involved--we've been a great deal to each other.
To-night--I accused her wrongfully. It was all my fault--I'm to
blame for everything." There was a pause. "I ruined her--you
understand? I won't allow any scandal. Now get me out of here as
quietly and as quickly as you can. I'm really not hurt much. Come,
come! There's nobody home except Orson and some of the kitchen
help, and Orson is all right--the women are gone, you know. He'll
get a doctor. It's a--bad business, of course, but I've thought it
all out, and you must do exactly as I say."

The effort of this long speech told on the sufferer.

Sweat beaded his face; nevertheless, his jaws remained firmly set;
his glance was purposeful, his big hands were gripped tightly over
the arms of his chair. There was something superb, something
terrible about his unchanging grimness.