And then herself—those same whirling red sparks in her brain, saying: “Now, now—I must kill myself, too. I must. I must. I must run somewhere and turn this on myself,” only quite unable to lift it at the moment—and because of some one—a man—approaching—a voice—footsteps, running—herself beginning to run—for some tree—some wall—some gate or doorway where she might stop and fire on herself. But a voice: “Hey! Stop that girl!” “Murder!” And another voice from somewhere else: “Hey! Murder! Stop that girl!” And footsteps, hard, quick ones, immediately behind her. And a hand grabbing hers in which was still the pistol, wildly and yet unwittingly held. And as the other hand wrenched at her hand—“Gimme that gun!” And then a strong youth whom she had never seen before—and yet not unlike Eddie either—turning her about—restraining her— “Say, you! What the devil is this, anyhow? Come back here. You can’t get away with this.” And yet at the same time not unfriendly eyes looking into hers, strong hands holding her, but not too roughly, and herself exclaiming: “Oh, let me go! Let me go! I want to die, too, I tell you! Let me go!” And sobbing great, dry, shaking sobs. But after that—and all so quickly—crowds—crowds—men and women, boys and girls, and finally policemen gathering about her, each with the rules of his training firmly in mind to get as much general information as possible; to see that the wounded man was hurried to a hospital, the girl to a precinct police station; the names and addresses of various witnesses secured. But with the lorn Ida in a state of collapse—seated upon a doorstep in a yard surrounded by a pushing crowd, while voices rang in her ears: “Where? What? How?” “Sure, sure! Just now, right back there. Sure, they’re calling the ambulance.” “He’s done for, I guess. Twice in the breast. He can’t live.” “Gee! He’s all covered with blood.” “Sure, she did. With a revolver—a great big one. The cop’s got it. She was tryin’ to get away. Sure, Jimmie Allen caught her. He was just comin’ home.” “Yeah. She’s the daughter of old Zobel who keeps the paint store up here in Warren Avenue. I know her. An’ he’s the son of this Hauptwanger here who owns the coal-yard. I used to work for ’em. He lives up in Grey Street.”