He laid it down. "I'd better be careful," he thought. "I'm not in my right mind. I might—"
He took it in his hand and went to the mirror and put the muzzle against his temple. He laughed crazily. "A little pressure on that trigger and—bang! I'd be in kingdom come and shouldn't give a damn for anybody." He caught sight of his eyes in the mirror and hastily dropped his arm to his side. "No, I'd never shoot myself in the temple. The heart'd be better. Just here"—and he pressed the muzzle into the soft material of his coat—"if I touched the trigger—"
And his finger did touch the trigger. Pains shot through his chest like cracks radiating in glass when a stone strikes it. He looked at his face—white, with wild eyes, with lips blue and ajar, the sweat streaming from his forehead.
"What have I done?" he shrieked, mad with the dread of death. "I must call for help." He turned toward the door, plunged forward, fell unconscious, the revolver flung half-way across the room.
When he came to his senses he was in his bed—comfortable, weak, lazy. With a slight effort he caught the thread of events. He turned his eyes and saw a nurse, seated at the head of his bed, reading. "Am I going to die?" he asked—his voice was thin and came in faint gusts.
"Certainly not," replied the nurse, putting down her book and standing over him, her face showing genuine reassurance and cheerfulness.
"You'll be well very soon. But you must lie quiet and not talk."
"Was it a bad wound?"
"The fever was the worst. The bullet glanced round just under the surface."
"It was an accident," he said, after a moment's thought. "I suppose everybody is saying I tried to kill myself."