“Don’t touch me!” Her voice ended in a little shriek as she evaded a second effort to grasp her, and placed the table between them.  “What do you—­mean?”

But it seemed that she had done her work too well, for his answer was like the growl of a hungry beast.  His eyes roved over the table for a weapon, and, reading his insane purpose, she cried again: 

“Don’t do that.  I warn you—­”

The nearest object chanced to be a crystal globe in which was set a tiny French clock—­one of those library ornaments serving as timepiece and paperweight—­over this his hand closed; he moved toward her.

“Put that down,” she cried.  He did not pause.  “Put it—­” She wrenched at the table drawer and fumbled for something.  Hammon uttered a bellow and leaped at her.

It was a tiny revolver, small enough to fit into a man’s vest pocket or a woman’s purse, but its report echoed loudly.  The noise came like a cannon-shot to the girl in the hall outside and brought a cry to her lips.  Lorelei flung herself against the library door.

What she saw reassured her momentarily, for, although Lilas was at bay against a book-case, Hammon was rooted in his tracks.  A strange, almost ludicrous expression of surprise was on his face; he was staring down at his breast; the revolver lay on the floor between him and Lilas.

Lorelei gasped an incoherent question, but neither of the two who faced each other appeared to hear it or to notice her presence in the room.

“I told you to—­keep off,” Lilas chattered.  Her eyes were fixed upon Hammon, but her out-flung arms were pressed against the support at her back as if she felt herself growing weak.  “You did it—­yourself.  I warned you.”

The man merely remained motionless, staring.  But there was something shocking in the paralysis that held him and fixed his face in that distorted mold of speechless amazement.  Finally he stirred; one hand crept inside his waistcoat, then came away red; he turned, walked to a chair, and half fell upon it.  Then he saw Lorelei’s face, and her agonized question took shape out of the whirling chaos in his mind.

“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.