“You ought to be ashamed of yourself not to be. And you don’t even know whom you’ll meet before you can lock the front door again. You promised me never to go out without it. 234 Promise me that once more, will you?” She did as he asked her. “Now, give me your hand, please,” he went on. “Take hold of this.”
“What is it?”
“The butt of my revolver. Don’t be afraid.” She heard the slight click of the hammer with a thrill of strange apprehension. “What are you doing?” she demanded hurriedly.
“Put your finger on the trigger––so. It is cocked. Now pull.”
She caught her breath. “What do you mean?”
He was holding the gun in his two hands, his fingers overlapping hers, the muzzle at the breast of his jacket. “Pull,” he repeated, “that’s all you have to do; I’m steadying it.”
She snatched back her hand. “What do you mean?” she cried. “For me to kill you? Shame!”
“You are too excited––all I asked you was to take the trouble to crook your finger––and I’ll never speak to you again––you’ll have your wish forever.”
“Shame!”
“Why shame?” he retorted. “I mean what I say. If you meant what you said, why don’t you put it out of my power ever to speak to you? Do you want me to pull the trigger?”