The moment before these last words escaped from Brettison’s lips Stratton had been sitting there with his elbows on the table, his face worn, haggard, and full of horror and disgust; but now the interest in his old friend’s statement returned, and he watched him eagerly. The explanation was coming at last. The half-cynical, indifferent manner, too, had passed away, as he continued:

“I came back to this very chair, Stratton, trembling and agitated as I had never been before, to stoop down at once, and then go upon one knee there—there on the rug. His head was just there, boy, and his face a little on one side, so that the profile of the vile scoundrel stood out, clearly cut, against the background of dark chocolate wood.”

Brettison’s manner was now excited, his words low and hoarse, and his manner had proved contagious; for Stratton’s lips parted, and he leaned over toward the speaker.

“For a few minutes I could do no more,” continued Brettison. “A horrible dread assailed me—that I had been deceived—that the door I had, in imagination, seen open before me had closed again, and that I was once more shut in with the terrible difficulty. But, nerving myself again, I passed one arm beneath the shoulders as before, raised him a little, and once more there was a low moan.”

“What?” cried Stratton wildly, as he started from his seat.

“Wait patiently, and you shall hear,” said Brettison; then, drawing a panting breath, as if the effort of recalling the terrible scene, with its excitement, was almost more than he could bear, he went on:

“I lowered him again, not daring to think that he was alive, knowing that the sound might have been caused by the escape of a little air from the cavity of the chest. For a few minutes I was sure that this was so, and my hopes were all dashed again. People have called me a learned man, Malcolm; but, before a difficulty like that, I was a poor, helpless, ignorant child.

“Mastering myself, though, at last, I thrust my hand into his breast; but I could feel nothing. I fancied there was a pulsation, but could not tell but that it might be caused by my own throbbing arteries. I tried the wrists, and then, tearing open the collar of his shirt, thrust my hand in there, and the pulsation was plain now. More, I distinctly felt a throb, as a low moan once more escaped from the man’s lips.”

“Not dead?” gasped Stratton. “Her husband! Living? Great Heavens!”

He sank back into his chair, staring wildly; and then, in a hoarse whisper:

“Go on!” he panted, “go on!”

“The way of escape was open widely now,” cried Brettison, reaching over to clutch his companion’s wrist, “and I could see my way clearly. It was madness to attempt to move the body of a dead man through the streets, boy—detection was certain; but to take a sick or injured man from one place to another was simplicity itself, and I breathed freely. I could act.”

“Not dead—not dead!” muttered Stratton, who looked as if he had received some terrible mental blow, which had confused his faculties and made the effort of following his old friend’s narrative almost beyond his powers.

“I closed that door at once, in dread now lest the moans should have been heard; and, able to grasp the position, I could work coolly enough. Going down on my knees with sponge and basin, I soon found that there was a small orifice behind the right ear. This had bled freely, but it had ceased; and, grasping at once that the bullet had gone upward, I examined next to find its place of exit.

“There was none. The bullet was, in all probability, still in the head.

“He moaned a little as I bathed away all traces of the injury; and when I had done, save that tiny orifice just behind the ear, there was nothing to show that he was not sleeping, for the face was quite composed.

“What to do next? Not a moment, I felt, must be lost, if I wished to save his life; and, with a feeling of grim cynicism, I asked myself whether I did. For I was in a dilemma. On the one hand, if I saved him, it cleared you from what might devolve into a charge of murder; on the other hand, if I let him die, Myra would be free, and some day—”

“No, no, impossible!” groaned Stratton. “Go on.”

“I could not decide what I ought to do at first, for—I confess it—I was dragged both ways; but I took the right road, Stratton.

“It was late, but it was a case of emergency, and the man’s face helped me to the tale I meant to tell. There was the swollen nose and there were the pimply blotches of the man who drank. That was sufficient for me; and with a strength of which I did not believe myself capable, I dragged him by the shoulders into my bedroom and locked him in. Then, taking my hat, I made my way out unseen, took a cab, and had myself driven to the house of an old servant, who was a pensioner of mine in South London. She was just about to retire for the night, but readily made preparations for the reception of an unfortunate friend of mine who had met with an accident, while I hurried back, discharged my cab, took a fresh one—the man, for ample pay, being willing enough to undertake my task, and soon found for me a strong helper.

“The rest was easy. I lied to them, and, on taking the man up with me, left him in my room, while I went into the chamber, trembling lest I should find our enemy was dead.

“But he was lying back as I had left him, on a lounge, and I returned to the fellow I had brought up. I gave the man brandy, took a glass myself, and, before utilising the help I had brought, purposely sprinkled the wounded man with spirit—a hint being sufficient to direct the helper’s thoughts into the channel that this person he was to help to the cab was a victim to delirium tremens, for the face was evidence enough.

“My new companion was to have a sovereign for his pains, so he found no cause to object; and when I offered to help laughingly put me aside.

“‘Oh, I can carry him,’ he said, ‘like a baby.’

“A bold, indifferent manner was............