Once in the shadows, Merkle leaned from the door, crying softly, “Faster!  Faster!”

Bob whipped up, the horse cantered, the cab reeled and bounced over the cobblestones, rocking the wounded man pitifully.

To John Merkle the ride was terrible, with a drunkard at the reins and in his own arms a perhaps fatally injured man, who, despite the tortures of that bumping carriage, interspersed his groans with cries of “Hurry, Hurry!” But, while Merkle was appalled at the situation and its possible consequences, he felt, nevertheless, that Hammon had acted in quite the proper way.  In fact, for a manly man there had been no alternative, regardless of who had fired the shot.  It was quite like Jarvis to do the generous, even the heroic, thing when least expected.  Whatever Hammon might have been, he was in the last analysis all man, and Merkle admired his courage.  He was glad that Hammon had thought of those three women who bore his name, even if they bore him no love, and he took courage from his friend’s plucky self-control.  Perhaps the wound was not serious, after all.  Hammon’s death would mean the ruin of many investors, a general crash, perhaps even a wide-spread panic, and, according to Merkle’s standards, these catastrophes bulked bigger than the unhappiness of women, the fall of an honored name, or death itself.

When he felt the grateful smoothness of Fifth Avenue beneath the wheels he leaned forth a second time and warned Bob, “Be careful of the watchman in the block.”

The liquor in Bob was dying; he bent downward to inquire, “Is he all right?”

Merkle nodded, then withdrew his head.

The Hammon residence has changed owners of late, but many people recall its tragic associations and continue to point it out with interest.  It is a massive pile of gray stone, standing just east of Fifth Avenue, and its bronze doors open upon an exclusive, well-kept side-street.  As the cab swung in sight of the house Wharton, seeing a gray-clad figure near by, drove past without pausing and turned south on Madison Avenue.  He made a complete circuit of the block, meditating with sobering effect upon the risk he was running.  His heart was pounding violently when the street unrolled before him for a second time.  At the farther corner, dimly discernible beneath the radiance of a street-light, he made out the watchman, now at the end of his patrol.  The moment was propitious; there could be no further delay.

Bob reined in and leaped from his box.  Merkle had the cab door open and was hoisting Hammon from his seat.

“Have you got the key?” Bob asked, swiftly.

“Yes.  Help me!  He’s fainted, I think.”

They lifted the half-conscious man out, then with him between them struggled up the steps; but Hammon’s feet dragged; he hung very heavy in their arms.

Merkle was not a strong man; he was panting, and his hands shook as he fumbled with the lock.  The key escaped him and tinkled upon the stone.