“For pity’s sake, don’t, don’t,” groaned Stratton in a voice full of unutterable anguish.
“She loves you, I say,” continued Guest firmly; “and, whatever has been the cause of this madness, she will forgive you.”
Stratton shook his head slowly.
“But I say she will. Come, we are none of us perfect. I tell you I am fighting for you now as well as myself. Your act this morning injures Edie and me too. So take it like this, old fellow. You have done wrong in some way; is not an attempt to make amends the first step toward showing repentance?”
“You don’t know—you don’t know,” groaned the wretched man.
“Not yet; you will not be open. Come now, be frank with me. In your utter despair, consequent upon your nerves being weak with mental worry, you used that pistol.”
Stratton buried his face in his hands.
“The old man was right,” continued Guest; “it was a cowardly way to get out of the difficulty. Let me help you. Come, once more, make a clean breast of it.”
Stratton’s hands fell again, and there was an eager look in his face; his lips parted and he was about to speak, but the look faded away and in a despondent, weary way he sank back once more.
“Very well. I will not press you now,” said Guest. “You’ll think better of it, old fellow. I’ll wait. Now, then, let me help you into your room.”