cash box on the desk, was
rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. "Had a little experience myself
this evening." He held out his hand that, with the forearm, was covered
with blood. "A little above the wrist--fortunately only a flesh wound--a
little memento from a chap named Markel, and--"

"MARKEL!" The word burst, quivering, from the other's lips.

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale imperturbably. "Do you mind if I wash a bit--and
could you oblige me with a towel, or something that would do for a
bandage?"

The man seemed dazed. In a subconscious way, he walked from the desk to
a little cupboard, and took out two towels.

Jimmie Dale stooped, while the other's back was turned, picked up the
revolver from the floor, and slipped it into his trousers pocket.

"Markel?" said Wilbur again, the same trembling anxiety in his voice, as
he handed Jimmie Dale the towels and motioned toward a washstand in the
corner of the room. "Did you say Markel--Theodore Markel?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale, examining his wound critically.

"You had trouble--a fight with him? Is he--he--dead?"

"No," said Jimmie Dale, smiling a little grimly. "He's pretty badly
hurt, though, I imagine--but not in a physical way."

"Strange!" whispered Wilbur, in a numbed tone to himself; and he went
back and sank down in his desk chair. "Strange that you should speak of
Markel--strange that you should have come here to-night!"

Jimmie Dale did not answer. He glanced now and then at the other, as he
deftly dressed his wrist--the man seemed on the verge of collapse, on
the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmie Dale swore softly to himself.
Wilbur was too old a man to be called upon to stand against the trouble
and anxiety that was mirrored in the misery in his face, that had
brought him to the point of taking his own life.

Jimmie Dale put on his coat again, walked over to the desk, and picked
up the 'phone.

"If I may?" he inquired courteously--and confided a number to the
mouthpiece of the instrument.

There was a moment's wait, during which Wilbur, in a desperate sort of
way, seemed to be trying to rally himself, to piece together a puzzle,
as it were; and for the first time he appeared to take a personal
interest in the masked figure that leaned against his desk. He kept
passing his hands across his eyes, staring at Jimmie Dale.

Then Jimmie Dale spoke--into the 'phone.

"MORNING NEWS-ARGUS office? Mr. Carruthers, please. Thank you."

Another wait--then J