"Private snap?" he sneered. "Well, damn your soul--here's a lady friend of mine," he poked the cold barrel harder against the trembling man's temple and cried: "Don't wiggle, don't you move." Then he went on: "Kiss her, you damned egg-sucking pup--when you've done flirting with this, I'm going to kill you." He emphasized the "you," and prodded the man's face with the barrel. "Henry," whispered Van Dorn, "Henry, for God's sake, let me talk--give me a show, won't you?" Fenn moved the barrel of the revolver over between the man's eyes and cried passionately: "Oh, yes, I'll give you a show, Tom--the same show you gave me." He shifted the revolver suddenly and pulled the trigger; the bullet bored a hole through the book on "Anglo-Saxon Supremacy" on the desk. Fenn drew in a deep breath. With the shot he had spilled some vial of wrath within him, though Van Dorn could not see the change that was creeping into Fenn's haggard face. "You see she'll shoot, Tom," said Fenn. Holding the smoking revolver to the man's head, Fenn reached for a chair and sat down. His rage was ebbing, and his mind was clear. He withdrew the weapon a few inches, and cried: "Don't you budge an inch." His hand was limp and shaking, but Van Dorn could not see it. "Tom, Tom," he cried. "God help me--help me." He repeated twice the word "me," then he went on: "For being what I am--only what I am--" he emphasized the "I." "For giving in to your devil as I give into mine--for falling as I have fallen--on another road--I was going to kill you." The revolver slipped from his hands. He picked it up by the barrel. He rose crying in a weak voice, "Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom," Van Dorn was lifting up in his chair, "Tom, Tom, God help us both poor, hell-cursed men," sobbed Fenn, and then with a fearful blow he brought the weapon down and struck the white, false forehead that gleamed beneath Fenn's wet face. He stood watching the man shudder and close his eyes, watching the blood seep out along a crooked seam, then gush over the face and fine, black hair and silken mustache. A bloody flood streamed there while he watched. Then Fenn wiped dry the butt of his revolver. He felt of the gash in the forehead, and found that the bone was not crushed. He was sober, and an unnatural calm was upon his brain. He could feel the tears in his eyes. He stood looking at the face of the unconscious man a long, dreadful minute as one who pities rather than hates a foe. Then he stepped to the telephone, called Dr. Nesbit, glanced at the fountain pen and the crumpled letter, burst into a spasm of weeping, and tiptoed out of the room. CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH WE SEE A FAT LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK