“Nevertheless, you will do as I command. He is going to live. That is why I demand it of you. If he were to die--well, even then you would not be permitted to speak. I shall stand here beside you, James Brood, and if you utter one word to contradict Ranjab's story I shall shoot you down. Can you not see how desperately in earnest I am?” She reached over and caught up the revolver from the chair as she was speaking. For a full minute they looked into each other's eyes, and he--the strong, invulnerable Brood--was the first to give way. The steely glitter faded before the swift rush of a new feeling that swept over him--an extraordinary feeling of tenderness toward this woman who fought him with something more than her own cause at stake. “I understand. You are right. If he gets well, this beastly thing must never be known. We will leave it to him. If he chooses to tell the truth, then------” “I have your promise--_now?_” she demanded intensely. “Yes. Now go!” Involuntarily he straightened his tall figure and pointed toward the door. “He is not to be removed from this house,” she insisted. “Ten minutes ago you were suggesting a different------” he began sneeringly. “The whole world has changed since then, James Brood,” she said, and her shoulders drooped. Almost instantly she recovered her poise. “I have a great deal to say to you later on.” “Not a great deal,” he said meaningly. He saw her flinch and was conscious of a curious pang, a poignant yet indefinable pang of remorse. She went swiftly from the room. He looked for the revolver. It was gone. Somehow he found himself wondering if she had taken it away with her in the fear that he would turn it against himself in case---- “No powder stains,” he heard Hodder saying to his assistant. “Not a sign of 'em.” “That's right,” said the assistant, shaking his head. “Couldn't have been--no, of course not,” went on the first speaker in a matter-of-fact tone. “Doesn't look that way,” agreed the assistant. “Fired from some little distance, I'd say.” “Fifteen or twenty feet, perhaps.” It suddenly dawned upon Brood that they were talking of suicide. “Good Heaven, Hodder, it--it wasn't _that!_” he cried hoarsely. “What right have you to doubt my word? I tell you I------” “Your word, Jim? This is the first word you've spoken since I came into the room.” “Is--is it a mortal wound?” broke from the other's lips. “Can't tell. First aid now, that's the point. We'll get him downstairs in a few minutes. More light. I can't see a thing in this--hello! What's this? A photograph? Fell out of his pocket when I--oh, I see! Your wife. Sorry I got blood on it.” He laid the small bit of pasteboard on the table. “Wiley! See if you can get a mattress. We'll move him at once. Lively, my lad. He's alive, all right, Jim. Do our best. Looks bad. Poor kid. He's not had a very happy life of it, I'm afraid--I beg pardon!”