Some of the men groaned, lowered their eyes, and some shuffled restlessly with their feet. Long John tapped again on the table.
“The old trite proverb that ‘all is fair in love and war’ applies here,” he said. “There was only one way to wipe out Rowton’s debt, and that way has been used.”
“A word more,” continued Rowton; “my debt will be wiped out soon, but there is another debt to cancel. Long John, you kidnapped the boy. If my record is white, yours is black. I forgive the rest of you fellows—you did what you did under compulsion. But as to you, you coward, I swear that if I appear before my Maker unabsolved and with my sins upon me, so do you.”
Quick as thought Rowton produced a revolver and fired. He aimed at Long John’s heart. The man saw his danger, swerved an inch, and received the bullet in his right arm.
All was immediately confusion and alarm. Rowton, after firing, fell to the ground in strong convulsions. Long John, white as a sheet, caught up a napkin to stay the blood which began to pour from his wounded arm. Simpkins rushed to one of the windows to shut it, fearing that the police might have heard the sound of the shot. Long John’s face became more and more ghastly—a smile kept coming and going on his thin lips. Simpkins ran forward to help him. Scrivener and another man approached the heap on the floor which had represented the strong, athletic form of Rowton not ten minutes ago.
“What are you trying to say, mate?” whispered Scrivener.
“Take me where I can be alone.”
The two men tried to lift him in their arms.
“Stay,” called Long John; “we can put cushions on the floor and lay him here. I am going. One word to you, Rowton, before we part; we have not yet squared the record.”
“We wait for that,” answered Rowton. He raised his glassy eyes and fixed them on Long John’s cadaverous face.