"Where's Bob?" he said, faintly. "Call him, please." "You're--hurt. I'll telephone for a doctor; there's one in the house, and--and the police, too." Lorelei voiced her first impulse, then shrilly appealed to Lilas to do something. But Lilas remained petrified in her attitude of retreat; from the pallor that was whitening her cheeks now it might have been she who was in danger of death. "Don't telephone," said Hammon, huskily. "You must do just as I say, understand? This mustn't get out, do you hear? I'm not--hurt. I'm all right, but--fetch Bob. Don't let him call a doctor, either, until I--get home. Now hurry--please." Lorelei rushed to the outside door, restraining with difficulty a wild impulse to run screaming through the hall of the apartment building and so arouse the other tenants. But the wounded man's instructions had been terse and forceful, therefore she held herself in check. Fortunately, the hall-man was not at his post, or without doubt he would have read tragedy in her demeanor. With skirts gathered high and breath sobbing in her throat, the girl fled up the stair to her own door, where she clung, ringing the bell frantically. She could hear Bob's--her husband's voice inside, raised in the best of humor. Evidently he was telephoning. "Yes. Two hours ago, I tell you. With book, bell, and candle. Sure, I'm happy--couldn't be otherwise, for I'm drunk and married. I knew you'd be glad. What? No; glad because I'm married." Jim's footsteps sounded, his hand opened the door, then his arm flew out to his sister's support as she staggered in. "SIS! What the devil?" he cried, aghast at sight of her. "Something--dreadful." Bob continued his cheerful colloquy over the wire. "Just got in from your nightly joy-ride, eh? Lucky I caught you. Say! Here she is now. We'll expect a marble clock with gilt cupids from you, Merkle--Want to say hello?" He lurched aside from the telephone as Lorelei snatched the receiver from his hand. "Mr. Merkle," she cried. "Hello! Yes. Is that you?" came Merkle's steady voice. "Come quick--quick." "What's wrong?" he demanded, with a sharp change of tone. "Has Bob--?" "No, no. It's Mr. Hammon. He's down-stairs with--Lilas, and he's hurt--shot. I--I'm frightened." She turned to find Bob and Jim staring at her. "Come," she gasped. "I think he's--dying." She led the way swiftly, and they followed. CHAPTER XV