J. J. Bell

“ THE clerk went back against the door, white, sweating, staring at the shining revolver.
“You can't beat me, Plyden,” said Stormont evenly. “Rather than pay you a penny more than I promised, I will kill you. To kill you would save me a hundred dollars, and there are several good enough reasons for your committing suicide. ”

“ In a perfect abandonment of despair, Lismore threw up his arms.
“Stop that!” commanded Stormont. “This is no time for us to quarrel,” he went on, rising. “You and I have got to be more solid than ever. The man died through sheer mischance; his blood is not on our hands.” Springing to the desk, he took from the open drawer a box of cartridges. “Quick! go and place that in Plyden's office coat. But first lock the outer door. Then ring up the police—the more excited you are the better. Say 'Suicide!' and ask them to send their doctor. Wait! ”

“ Tears came to his eyes. “You poor, weak devil!” he muttered. He disposed of case and bullet, for the time being, by dropping them into a large jar of ink. Finally he found a clean handkerchief and covered the still face. ”