"John!" The iron-master smiled pallidly as his friend came and knelt beside him. "You got here quickly."
"Are you badly hurt, Jarvis?"
"The damned thing is in here somewhere." Hammon took his hand away from his breast, and Merkle saw that the fingers were bloody. "Can you get me out of here quietly?"
John Merkle rose to his full height, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Harshly he inquired: "Where is that woman?"
"She's back yonder, in her room," Bob told him. "She's ill."
Merkle turned, but, reading his intent, Hammon checked him, crying in a strong voice: "None of that, John. I did it myself. It was an—accident."
"I don't believe it."
Hammon's eyes met those of his accuser; the two stared at each other steadily for a moment.
"It's true."
Merkle took a step and stooped for the revolver which had lain unnoticed until this moment. He held it in his hand.