“So you refuse me an engagement, do you, Merriwell?” snarled Lawrence. “All right! You’ll wish you hadn’t in a minute!”
He made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. Then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning.
“That’s the last of your old play!” he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames.
Both Frank and Ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent Lawrence’s revengeful act.
“You miserable cur!” panted Frank.
Out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down.
At the same time Ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it.
Lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. He wrenched out a revolver and lifted it.
Frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke.
The shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, Lawrence realized that Merriwell had escaped. But beyond Frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. He heard her cry “Lawton!” and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand!