Seized by a sudden overwhelming fear, she flung open the door. Tony was standing beside an old mahogany bureau, one drawer of which had been pulled open. His arm was half-raised. In his hand he gripped a revolver. Ann could see the light from the rose-shaded burners run redly along its barrel like a thin stream of blood. In the fraction of a second she had fled across the room and grasped his wrist.
“Tony! What are you doing?” she cried hoarsely.
She felt his arm jerk against her hold, resisting it, but she clung determinedly to his wrist with her small strong fingers.
“Give it to me! Give it to me!” she whispered hurryingly, hardly conscious of what she was saying.
His instinctive resistance ceased. She felt his muscles relax, and he allowed her to take the pistol from him. He stared down at her curiously.
“Pity you didn’t come two minutes later,” he observed laconically.
Without reply, she proceeded to unload the revolver. He watched her with a faint, apathetic amusement.
“Shouldn’t have thought you knew how to do that,” he said.
“I learned how to handle a revolver during the war,” she returned grimly. She crossed the room and very softly closed the door. “Now, Tony,” she went on, turning back and forcing herself to speak composedly, “you’re going to tell me all about it. Things must be pretty bad for you to have thought of—this.” She glanced down with shrinking repugnance at the weapon which she still held. All at once the apathy which seemed to have possessed him vanished. He turned on her with sudden violence.
“Why did you come? If you hadn’t, I should be safely out of it all!... Out of it all!... Oh, my God!...”