Jimmie was across the room at a bound, and, striking his friend's arm down, he sent the weapon clattering to the floor.
"Good God!" he cried. "What were you going to do?"
"End it all," gasped Bertie. He dropped into a chair and gave way to a burst of tears, which he tried hard to repress.
"What does it mean?" exclaimed Jimmie, breathing quick and deep. "Are you mad?"
Bertie lifted a ghastly, distorted face.
"It means ruin, old chap," he replied. "That's the plain truth. I wish you had let me alone."
"Come, this won't do, you know," said Jimmie. "You are not yourself this morning, and I don't wonder, after the condition I found you in last night. Things always look black after a spree. You exaggerate, of course, when you talk about ruin. You are all unstrung, Bertie. Tell me your troubles, and I'll do what I can to help you out of them."
Bertie shuddered as his eyes fell on the pistol at his feet.
"It's awfully good of you, old fellow," he answered huskily, "but you can't help me."
"How do you know that? Come, out with your story. Make a clean breast of it!"