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.