Jimmie Dale stole across the room, crouched by the door to look into the inner office—and his face went suddenly rigid.
“Good God!” he whispered. “As bad as that!”—but it was a nonchalant Jimmie Dale to all outward appearances that, on the instant, stepped unconcernedly over the threshold.
An elderly man, white-haired, kindly-faced, kindly-eyed, save now that the face was drawn and haggard, the eyes full of weariness, was standing behind a flat-topped desk, his fingers twitching nervously on a revolver in his hand. He whirled, with a startled cry, at Jimmie Dale's entrance, and the revolver clattered from his fingers to the floor.
“I am afraid,” said Jimmie Dale, smiling pleasantly, “that you were going to shoot yourself. Your name is Wilbur, Henry Wilbur, isn't it?”
Unmanned, trembling, the other stood—and nodded mechanically.
“It's really not a nice thing to do,” said Jimmie Dale confidentially. “Makes a mess, you see, too”—he was pulling off his motor gauntlet, his ulster, his jacket, and, having set the cash box on the desk, was rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. “Had a little experience myself this evening.” He held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered with blood. “A little above the wrist—fortunately only a flesh wound—a little memento from a chap named Markel, and—”
“MARKEL!” The word burst, quivering, from the other's lips.
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale imperturbably. “Do you mind if I wash a bit—and could you oblige me with a towel, or something that would do for a bandage?”
The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way, he walked from the desk to a little cupboard, and took out two towels.
Jimmie Dale stooped, while the other's back was turned, picked up the revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket.