From that minute you could see that Graham was trying to get Findlay’s revolver away from him, twisting his arm, trying to bite his fingers loose, and all the while shouting out, “You damn dirty sneak, gimme that gun! Gimme the gun, I say! It’s the gun I want!” and things like that. And Augustus, who was terrified, thinking they were after the thing to prove murder on him, clung to it with the tenacity of an octopus. The man at the second-story window, whose name it later appeared was Rathbun, finding yelling to the two scrappers was no good, came downstairs and out at the street door of the tenement building; but seeing—or, to be more accurate, hearing what it was they were fighting for, hesitated in the doorway, as he had an aversion to being shot up. In this instant of Rathbun’s hesitation Graham gave Augustus a smash in the face that made him loosen his hold, and then snatching the revolver out of his hands turned and raced up Collamore Street, carrying it by the muzzle; and Rathbun noticed, as the man swung into a street light, that the hand he was holding it with had a glove on it. After Graham got safely away, Rathbun went out to Findlay, who was lying in the road, and tried to find out what it was all about and whether he was hurt. But he couldn’t get anything out of the fellow. After a few moments Findlay got to his feet unsteadily, stared blankly at Rathbun for a second or two, then wheeled around and went limping down the street toward the railroad. A sorry-looking object he was, battered and torn and plastered with mud. But his mental condition was sorrier. Maudlin and devastating fright possessed him. He’d done a murder—murder—murder! Shot a man, killed a man, and they were hunting for him—they’d get him! Drunkenness no defense. He’d looked that up before, when he really thought of doing it! This time he didn’t think. And he’d done it! He stopped. If he went home they’d get him there. But if he tried to get away it would be the same as a confession of guilt. If he went home he could deny everything—insist that he didn’t know what they were talking about—that he hadn’t left the house all that evening. Edith must back him up. That is, if anyone came for him. But after all, why should they? No one could possibly have seen him at the Haworth place. It was dark as pitch. And the shutters were closed, so no light shone on him. Yet who could the man have been who got his revolver? Just a plain hold-up, that’s what it was. Yet he thought he’d heard him following from way back near Torrington Road. But if he was a detective he’d have arrested him. And, anyway, a detective couldn’t have got on the job thirty seconds after Haworth was k——. Great God! He couldn’t say it even to himself.