But Merkle's apprehensions were by no means as purely selfish as his immediate train of thought might imply; nor were they by any means confined to the probable cost in dollars and cents of his associate's death. Hammon and he had been friends for many years; they shared a mutual respect and affection, and, although Merkle was eminently practical and unemotional, he prayed now as best he could that this alarm might be false, and that Hammon might not be grievously injured. Meanwhile he wedged himself into the cushions of the reeling car and urged his driver to more speed.
As the machine drew up to the Elegancia, Jimmy Knight leaped to the running-board and said hurriedly:
"Send your driver away."
Merkle did as he was directed, realizing his worst fears. When he and
Jim stood alone on the walk he inquired weakly, "Is he—dead?"
Jim shook his head, and Merkle saw that he was deeply agitated. "No.
But he's got a bullet in his chest."
"Did she—did that woman—?" Merkle laid a bony hand upon Jim's arm, and his fingers clutched like claws.
"I—don't know. He says he did it himself, and she won't talk. He declares it's only a scratch, and won't let us telephone for a doctor or for an ambulance. He's afraid of the police and—he's waiting for you."
Merkle hurried toward the entrance, but Jim halted him, and by the light from within it was plain that the latter was fairly palsied with fright. "For God's sake be careful! D-don't let the hall-man suspect. Lorelei was with 'em when it happened, and if it's—murder she'll be in it. Understand? She says she didn't see it, but she was there."
Together the men entered the building and at the first ring were admitted to Apartment Number One by Lorelei herself. She led them straight into the library.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the shooting, but Jarvis
Hammon still sat in the big chair. He was breathing quietly. Bob
Wharton stood beside him.