Stratton rose slowly, and he was evidently confused and not quite able to grasp all that had been going on, till a pang from his injured shoulder spurred his brain.

His right-hand went up to the bandage, and he began hastily to arrange his dress.

He was evidently sick and faint, but to restore his garments was for the moment the dominant idea.

Then another thought came, and he looked wildly round, hardly appearing to grasp the fact that friend and visitors had drawn back from him, while the former slowly uncocked the revolver and carefully extracted the cartridges, noting that four were filled, and two empty.

Guest knew the billet of one of the bullets, and he involuntarily looked round for the other.

He had not far to seek. The shade covering the wired and mounted bones of an ancient extinct bird standing on a cabinet was shattered, and the bullet had cut through the neck vertebrae, and then buried itself in the oaken panelling.

Guest lowered his eyes to his task again, and slowly placed the cartridges in one pocket, the pistol in the other, when, raising his eyes, he met the admiral’s shadowed by the heavy brows; and the old officer gave him a nod of approval.

“Well, Rebecca,” he said, in a deep voice which seemed to hold the dying mutterings of the storm which had raged in his breast but a short time before; “we may go. I can’t jump on a fallen man.”

“Yes,” said Miss Jerrold, with a look of sadness and sympathy at Stratton, who stood supporting himself against the table; “we had better go. O Malcolm Stratton,” she cried passionately, “and I did so believe in you.”

He raised his face, with a momentary flush of pleasure bringing back something of its former aspect. But the gloom of despair came down like a cloud over a gleam of sunshine, and his chin fell upon his chest, though a movement now and then told that he was listening bitterly to every word.

“Yes,” said Sir Mark; “it’s as well you did not get in the police. Keep it all quiet for everyone’s sake. The doctor must know, though.”

Stratton’s face was a little raised at this, and he turned slightly as Guest said:

“Of course. It is not a dangerous wound, but look at him.”

Stratton’s chin fell again upon his breast.

“In a few hours,” continued the admiral, “fever will probably set in.”

A low, catching breath shook Stratton, and one hand grasped the table edge violently.

“And he will be delirious.”

Stratton strove hard to contain himself, but he started violently, and raising his face he passed his right-hand across his dripping brow.

“I cannot stop here, Guest,” said Sir Mark. “Come, Rebecca, my dear. You must not leave him alone. Shall I send in a medical man?”

“No!” cried Stratton hoarsely, in so fierce a voice that all started, and the admiral shrugged his shoulders, and drawing himself up crossed to the door, his sister following him with her face full of perplexity and commiseration.

But she turned as she reached the door, hesitated for a moment, and the rigid hardness in her face, with its anger against the man who had done her niece so cruel a wrong, died away to give place to a gentle, womanly look of sorrow and reproach as she hurried back to where Stratton stood with his back to the table, grasping its edge, while the objects thereon trembled and tottered from the motion communicated by the man’s quivering muscles.

“Heaven forgive you, Malcolm Stratton!” she said slowly. “I cannot now. I am going back to her. Man, you have broken the heart of as true and sweet a woman as ever lived.”

Stratton did not stir, but stood there bent, and as if crushed, listening to the rustle of his visitor’s rich silk, as she hurried back to her brother; then the door was opened, closed upon them, and a dead silence reigned in Stratton’s study, as he and Guest stood listening to the faint sound of the descending steps till they had completely died away.

Then Guest turned to his friend:

“Now,” he said coldly, “give me your arm. No; stop. Where are your keys?”

Stratton raised his head sharply.

“Where are your keys?”

“What for?”

“I want to get the spirits to give you a dram.”

“No, no,” said Stratton firmly. “Now go!”

“Of course,” said Guest bitterly. “That’s my way when you’re in trouble. You miserable fool! You madman!” he roared, flashing out suddenly with passion. “What is it? Two years ago, when I came here and found you with that cyanide bottle on the table, and the glass ready with its draught, I stopped you then, you coward. This time you were alone to attempt your wretched work.”

Stratton glared at him wildly.

“And here have we all been scared to death, fearing that you had been attacked. The admiral said you were a miserable coward, and you are. Where is your manhood? Where is your honour, to carry on like this with poor Myra till the last moment, and then do this? Hang it, man, why didn’t you aim straight and end it, instead of bringing us to such a pitiful scene as this?”

Stratton drew his breath hard.

“There, I’ve done. It’s jumping, as he said, on a fallen man. But I was obliged to speak. Now, then, those keys.”

“Go!” cried Stratton sternly. “Go. Leave me!”

“To play some other mad prank? Not I. I want those keys to get out the brandy.”

“I tell you no—no.”

“Very well. It was to save you from fainting. Faint then, and be hanged. Give me your arm.”

“Will you go?” cried Stratton fiercely.

“Yes, when you are on your bed, and then only to the door to call someone—”

“What?”

“To fetch the nearest doctor. Come along.”

“Percy Guest—” began Stratton fiercely.

“It’s of no use,” said Guest. “Only waste of words. Come along.”

Stratton made a quick movement to avoid him, and staggered into a chair; when his eyes closed, and he lay back fainting.

“Poor wretch!” muttered Guest, snatching the basin and sponge to begin bathing the already damp face. “I oughtn’t to have bullied him.”

In a few moments Stratton opened his eyes again, and his first look was directed round the room.

“It’s all right, old chap,” said Guest. “Temper’s gone. Come, be sensible. I won’t say disagreeable things to you. Give up the keys. You’d be better for a drop of brandy.”

“No,” said Stratton hastily. “Go and leave me now.”

“Impossible. You must have the doctor.”

“I cannot; I will not.”

“But you must.”

“Do you hear what I say?” cried Stratton fiercely.

“Yes. There is no occasion to fly out at me for wanting to be of service.”

“I want no help. I must be alone.”

“To go wandering off into a fit of delirium. There, I’ll call old mother Brade to fetch a surgeon.”

“You will not do so. I forbid it.”

“Exactly, but you are a patient now. There, don’t be idiotic. I can read you like a book.”

Stratton looked up at him sharply.

“You don’t want the doctor to see your wound and know how it came—there, don’t stare in that wild way—leave it to me. It was an accident. You were fooling about with a revolver. Cleaning it, say; and it went off. That’s all the doctor need know.”

“No one must know even that.”

“But your wound must be properly dressed.”

“I will not have it touched,” cried Stratton decisively. “Now, once more. I am not much hurt. Go.”

Guest laughed bitterly.

“No, my boy, you don’t get rid of me. I’ll stick to you like your conscience.”

Stratton’s eyes dilated.

“And I’m going to be master here till you are well bodily and mentally.”

“I tell you I am not much hurt. Mentally! Pooh, I’m as well as you ............