"This isn't your gun," he said, quietly.
"No. It's hers. We had a quarrel. I—She intended to use it on herself.
We fought for it—and in the struggle I set it off."
The other occupants of the room had listened breathlessly; now Lorelei stirred and Merkle read more than mere bewilderment in her face. He opened his lips, but the wounded man did not wait for him to speak.
"You MUST believe me!" he said, earnestly. "It's the truth, and I won't have Lilas involved—we've been a great deal to each other. To-night—I accused her wrongfully. It was all my fault—I'm to blame for everything." There was a pause. "I ruined her—you understand? I won't allow any scandal. Now get me out of here as quietly and as quickly as you can. I'm really not hurt much. Come, come! There's nobody home except Orson and some of the kitchen help, and Orson is all right—the women are gone, you know. He'll get a doctor. It's a—bad business, of course, but I've thought it all out, and you must do exactly as I say."
The effort of this long speech told on the sufferer.
Sweat beaded his face; nevertheless, his jaws remained firmly set; his glance was purposeful, his big hands were gripped tightly over the arms of his chair. There was something superb, something terrible about his unchanging grimness.
Lorelei spoke timidly, for the first time. "But—the law, Mr. Merkle?
The police—?"
"To hell with the law!" Jim burst out, nervously. "D'you want to go to court? D'you want to be up for murder? Lilas would saddle it onto you to save herself."
"Murder?" echoed Bob, with a start. "Jove!"
Jarvis Hammon cried furiously: "Don't be fools. There's no murder about it. I told you I shot myself accidentally. I'm not going to die."