Something jingled on the floor as his inert form collapsed, and a
smoking revolver dropped at Burke's feet.
He picked it up sharply, uncocked it and laid it on the table.
Then he stooped over the prostrate body. The limbs were twitching
spasmodically, but the movement was wholly involuntary. The
deathlike face testified to that. And through the grey flannel
shirt above the heart a dark stain spread and spread.
"He is dead!" gasped Sylvia at Burke's shoulder.
"No," Burke said.
He opened the shirt with the words and exposed the wound beneath.
Sylvia shrank at the sight of the welling blood, but Burke's voice
steadied her.
"Get some handkerchiefs and towels," he said, "and make a wad! We
must stop this somehow."
His quietness gave her strength. Swiftly she moved to do his
bidding.
Returning, she found that he had stretched the silent figure full
length upon the floor. The convulsive movements had wholly ceased.
Guy lay like a dead man.
She knelt beside Burke. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it! I'll
do--anything!"
"All right," he said. "Get some cold water!"
She brought it, and he soaked some handkerchiefs and covered the
wound.
"I think we shall stop it," he said. "Help me to get this thing
under his shoulders! I shall have to tie him up tight. I'll lift
him while you get it underneath.
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