“What do—you mean?” she queried, haltingly.
“Shoot me again! Put me out of my pain—my misery.... I'm sick of it all. I'd be glad to have you kill me!”
“Kells!” exclaimed Joan, weakly.
“Take your chance—now—when I've no strength—to force you.... Throw the gun on me.... Kill me!”
He spoke with a terrible impelling earnestness, and the strength of his will almost hypnotized Joan into execution of his demand.
“You are mad,” she said. “I don't want to kill you. I couldn't.... I just want you to—to be—decent to me.”
“I have been—for me. I was only in fun this time—when I grabbed you. But the FEEL of you!... I can't be decent any more. I see things clear now.... Joan Randle, it's my life or your soul!”
He rose now, dark, shaken, stripped of all save the truth.
Joan dropped the gun from nerveless grasp.
“Is that your choice?” he asked hoarsely.