"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.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112