Merkle found his chauffeur just closing the garage door, and three minutes later his car was sweeping westward through the Park like the shadow of some flying bird. The vagueness, the brevity of the message that had come to him out of the night made it terribly alarming. Hammon of all men! And at this time! Merkle's mind leaped to the consequences of the catastrophe, if catastrophe it proved. He remembered the issues raised by the sudden death of another associate--also a man of standing and the head of a great industrial combination--and the avalanche of misfortune that it had started. In that case death had been attributed to apoplexy, but when the truth leaked out it had created a terrible scandal. Fortunately, that man's business affairs had been well ordered, and, although his family had been ruined, his institutions had managed to survive the blow. But Jarvis Hammon's financial interests were in no condition to withstand a shock; for a long time many of them had been under fire. He had committed his associates to a program of commercial expansion, never too secure even under favorable conditions, and one, moreover, which had provoked a tremendous assault from rival steel manufacturers. Now, with Hammon himself stricken at the crisis of the struggle, there was no telling what results might follow.

But Merkle's apprehensions were by no means as purely selfish as his immediate train of thought might imply; nor were they by any means confined to the probable cost in dollars and cents of his associate's death. Hammon and he had been friends for many years; they shared a mutual respect and affection, and, although Merkle was eminently practical and unemotional, he prayed now as best he could that this alarm might be false, and that Hammon might not be grievously injured. Meanwhile he wedged himself into the cushions of the reeling car and urged his driver to more speed.

As the machine drew up to the Elegancia, Jimmy Knight leaped to the running-board and said hurriedly:

"Send your driver away."

Merkle did as he was directed, realizing his worst fears. When he and Jim stood alone on the walk he inquired weakly, "Is he--dead?"

Jim shook his head, and Merkle saw that he was deeply agitated. "No. But he's got a bullet in his chest."

"Did she--did that woman--?" Merkle laid a bony hand upon Jim's arm, and his fingers clutched like claws.

"I--don't know. He says he did it himself, and she won't talk. He declares it's only a scratch, and won't let us telephone for a doctor or for an ambulance. He's afraid of the police and--he's waiting for you."

Merkle hurried toward the entrance, but Jim halted him, and by the light from within it was plain that the latter was fairly palsied with fright. "For God's sake be careful! D-don't let the hall-man suspect. Lorelei was with 'em when it happened, and if it's-- murder she'll be in it. Understand? She says she didn't see it, but she was there."

Together the men entered the building and at the first ring were admitted to Apartment Number One by Lorelei herself. She led them straight into the library.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the shooting, but Jarvis Hammon still sat in the big chair. He was breathing quietly. Bob Wharton stood beside him.

"John!" The iron-master smiled pallidly as his friend came and knelt beside him. "You got here quickly."

"Are you badly hurt, Jarvis?"

"The damned thing is in here somewhere." Hammon took his hand away from his breast, and Merkle saw that the fingers were bloody. "Can you get me out of here quietly?"

John Merkle rose to his full height, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Harshly he inquired: "Where is that woman?"

"She's back yonder, in her room," Bob told him. "She's ill."

Merkle turned, but, reading his intent, Hammon checked him, crying in a strong voice: "None of that, John. I did it myself. It was an--accident."

"I don't believe it."

Hammon's eyes met those of his accuser; the two stared at each other steadily for a moment.

"It's true."

Merkle took a step and stooped for the revolver which had lain unnoticed until this moment. He held it in his hand.

"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."

"You CAN'T--you MUSTN'T," Merkle gravely agreed.

"Is your car outside, John?"

Merkle shook his head. He was thinking swiftly. "I wouldn't dare risk that, anyhow. The driver is a new man."

"Get a cab," Jim offered, in a panic.

"The cab-driver would be sure to--"

"I'll drive," Bob volunteered. "I'm drunk, but I've done it before when I was drunker. It's an old trick of mine--sort of a joke, see? Give me some money--a cabby'll do anything for money at this time o' night."

Merkle eyed the speaker in momentary doubt, then handed him a roll of bank-notes. "It's a serious business, Bob, but--this is worse, and we've no time to lose--Jarvis can't stay here. There's somebody else to consider besides us and--Miss Lynn. I'm thinking about Mrs. Hammon and the girls." Hammon groaned. "But we mustn't leave a trail, understand? Now go quickly, and--do the best you can." He followed Bob to the door and let him out. Instead of returning to the library, however, Merkle stepped swiftly down the hall, then, without knocking, opened the door to Lilas Lynn's bedroom and entered.

Lilas was busied at her dressing-table; an open traveling-bag jammed with articles of wearing-apparel stood on the bed. At his entrance she uttered a frightened cry and a silver spoon slipped from her nerveless fingers. Merkle saw also a little open box with several compartments, a glass of water, the cap of a pearl-and- gold fountain-pen, but took scant notice of them, being too deeply stirred and too much surprised at her appearance. She was no longer the vital, dashing girl he had known, but a pallid, cringing wreck of a woman. She shrank back at sight of him, babbling unintelligible words and cowering as if expecting a blow.

"Did you shoot him?" he asked, grimly.

Shivering, choking, speechless, Lilas stared at him. Her hair was disarranged; it hung in wisps and strings over her neck and brow; her eyes were dull and distended, like those of a person just recovering from the effects of an anesthetic. It was doubtful if she even recognized him. A repetition of his question brought no reply.

Seizing her roughly, he shook her, muttering savagely:

"If I were sure, by God, I'd strangle you!"

She remained limp; her expressionless stare did not change.

Merkle heard a stir behind him and found Jimmy Knight's blanched face peering in at him. Even fright could not entirely rob the younger man's features of their sly inquisitiveness.

"Mr. Hammon's calling you," said Jim, then blinked at the wretchedly disheveled woman.

"Here!" Merkle beckoned him with a jerk of his head. "This girl must get away from here. She'll ruin everything in her condition. Try to put her in some kind of shape while Lorelei packs her bag. We had better get her out of the country if we can."

Jim's quick eyes took in the articles on the dressing-table. "Ha! Dope," he exclaimed. "She's a coker--she's filled herself up. But, say--you don't really think she--did it, do you?"

"I don't know what to think. It's just as bad, either way. Hammon's wife and daughters must never know. Now, quick. See what you can do with her."

Merkle returned to the library, sent Lorelei in to her brother's assistance, then scanned his friend's face anxiously. But Hammon had not moved; the sweat still stood upon his lips and forehead, his jaws were still set like stone.

"No scandal, John," he exclaimed. "No scandal--whatever happens-- on account of my girls."

"You're worse hit than you'll admit," Merkle said, gently.

"No, no. I'm all right. I'm not even suffering." His pallor belied his words, but he went on with even better self-control than Merkle's: "There's paper and ink yonder. Take these notes, will you? Things are in bad shape on the Street, and--you never can tell what may happen, so we'd better play safe."

Merkle seated himself and took the wounded man's dictation as best he could; but his hand shook badly.

From down the hall came hysterical meanings as Lilas Lynn struggled in a drugged and drunken breakdown.

The moments dragged interminably.

Several months before, Bob Wharton during one of his hilarious moments had conceived the brilliant notion of hiring a four- wheeler and driving a convivial party of friends from place to place. The success of his exploit had been so gratifying that he had repeated the performance, but he was in a far different mood now as he left the Elegancia. The shock of Lorelei's announcement, the sight of his stricken friend, had sobered him considerably, yet he was not himself by any means. At one moment he saw and reasoned clearly, at the next his intoxication benumbed his senses and distorted his mental vision. These periods alternated with some regularity, as if the wine-fumes rose in waves; but he centered his attention upon the task ahead of him and hastened his sluggish limbs.

One word--"murder"--stuck in his memory; it kept repeating itself. He remembered Jimmy Knight's sentence directed at Lorelei. "D'you want to go to court?"

Lorelei was his wife, Bob reflected, dizzily--quite clearly he remembered marrying her. It was plainly as necessary, therefore, to shield her as to remove Jarvis Hammon and smother this accident. Or was it an accident, after all? Perhaps Lilas had shot the fellow. If that were true, then she ought to be arrested-- certainly. But somebody had said, "She'll saddle it onto Lorelei to save herself." After all, it couldn't be murder, for hadn't Hammon said that he shot himself? Bob decided there could be no such need for haste, now that the truth was known, so he slackened his zigzag progress. If nobody had been murdered, why hire a cab at all? Then he began to run again, remembering that Hammon needed a doctor. This was a fine wedding night, indeed. For once in his life he wished himself sober.

Broadway, that pulsating artery of New York life, was still flowing a thin stream of traffic despite the lateness of the hour, and Bob's mind had become clearer by the time he reached it.

He signaled to the first horse-drawn vehicle that passed, but it was occupied, and the driver paid no heed to his call. Several taxi-cabs whirled past, both north and south bound, but he knew better than to hire them, so he waited as patiently as he could while those billows of intoxication continued to ebb and flow through his brain, robbing him of that careful judgment which he fought to retain.

At last the clop-clop-clop of a horse's hoofs sounded close by, and an unshaven man in an ancient high hat steered a four-wheeler to the curb, barking: "Keb, keb!"

Bob lurched forward and laid a hand upon the driver's knee. "Very man I'm lookin' for." The hiccup that followed was by no means intentional.

"Yes, sir.............