As the machine drew up to the Elegancia, Jimmy Knight leaped to the running-board and said hurriedly: 

“Send your driver away.”

Merkle did as he was directed, realizing his worst fears.  When he and Jim stood alone on the walk he inquired weakly, “Is he—­dead?”

Jim shook his head, and Merkle saw that he was deeply agitated.  “No.  But he’s got a bullet in his chest.”

“Did she—­did that woman—?” Merkle laid a bony hand upon Jim’s arm, and his fingers clutched like claws.

“I—­don’t know.  He says he did it himself, and she won’t talk.  He declares it’s only a scratch, and won’t let us telephone for a doctor or for an ambulance.  He’s afraid of the police and—­he’s waiting for you.”

Merkle hurried toward the entrance, but Jim halted him, and by the light from within it was plain that the latter was fairly palsied with fright.  “For God’s sake be careful!  D-don’t let the hall-man suspect.  Lorelei was with ’em when it happened, and if it’s—­ murder she’ll be in it.  Understand?  She says she didn’t see it, but she was there.”

Together the men entered the building and at the first ring were admitted to Apartment Number One by Lorelei herself.  She led them straight into the library.

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.”

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.