He took up the revolver. "What'd be the use of smashing 'em?" he said wearily. He felt tired and sick, horribly sick. He laid it down. "I'd better be careful," he thought. "I'm not in my right mind. I might--" He took it in his hand and went to the mirror and put the muzzle against his temple. He laughed crazily. "A little pressure on that trigger and--bang! I'd be in kingdom come and shouldn't give a damn for anybody." He caught sight of his eyes in the mirror and hastily dropped his arm to his side. "No, I'd never shoot myself in the temple. The heart'd be better. Just here"--and he pressed the muzzle into the soft material of his coat--"if I touched the trigger--" And his finger did touch the trigger. Pains shot through his chest like cracks radiating in glass when a stone strikes it. He looked at his face--white, with wild eyes, with lips blue and ajar, the sweat streaming from his forehead. "What have I done?" he shrieked, mad with the dread of death. "I must call for help." He turned toward the door, plunged forward, fell unconscious, the revolver flung half-way across the room. When he came to his senses he was in his bed--comfortable, weak, lazy. With a slight effort he caught the thread of events. He turned his eyes and saw a nurse, seated at the head of his bed, reading. "Am I going to die?" he asked--his voice was thin and came in faint gusts. "Certainly not," replied the nurse, putting down her book and standing over him, her face showing genuine reassurance and cheerfulness. "You'll be well very soon. But you must lie quiet and not talk." "Was it a bad wound?" "The fever was the worst. The bullet glanced round just under the surface." "It was an accident," he said, after a moment's thought. "I suppose everybody is saying I tried to kill myself." "'Everybody' doesn't know anything about it. Almost nobody knows. Even the servants don't know. Your secretary sent them away, broke in and found you." He closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke again he felt that a long time had passed, that he was much better, that he was hungry. "Nurse!" he called. The woman at the head of the bed rose and laid a cool hand upon his forehead. "How good that feels," he mumbled gratefully. "What nice hands you have, nurse," and he lifted his glance to her face. He stared wonderingly, confusedly. "I thought I was awake and almost well," he murmured. "And instead, I'm out of my head." "Can I do anything for you?" It certainly was HER voice. "Is it you, Pauline?" he asked, as if he feared a negative answer. "Yes--John." A long silence, then he said: "Why did you come?" "The doctor wrote me that--wrote me the truth." "But haven't you heard? Haven't you seen the papers? Don't they say I'm ruined?" "Yes, John." He lay silent for several minutes. Then he asked hesitatingly: "And--when--do you--go back--West?"