Part 41 (1/2)

”My name's Hazlitt. Come out here.”

Von Stinnes leveled his monocle witheringly upon the interloper and murmured an aside, ”He's drunk....”

Dorn stood up.

”Yes, I remember you now,” he said. The man's tone had oppressed him.

”What do you want?”

He detached himself from Mathilde and stepped into the room. Hazlitt stared at him.

”I owe you something,” he spoke slowly. ”Come out here.”

Watching the man as he approached, Dorn became aware of a rage in himself. His muscles had tightened and a nervousness was shaking in his words. The man was a stranger, yet there was an uncomfortable intimacy in his eyes.

Hazlitt stood breathing heavily. This was Erik Dorn--the man who had had Rachel. Wine swept a flame through his thought. G.o.d! this was the man.

She was gone, but this was the man. Shoot him down like a dog! Shoot him down! Kill the grin of him. He'd pay. He'd killed something. Shoot him down! There was a gun under his coat--army revolver. Better than shooting Germans. This was the man.

”You're going to pay for it,” he spoke. ”Go on, say something.”

Dorn's rage hesitated. A mistake. What the devil was up?

”Oh, you've forgotten her,” Hazlitt whispered. Shoot him! Voices inside demanded wildly that he shoot. Not talk, but kill.

”Rachel,” he cried suddenly. His eyes stopped seeing.

Dorn jumped for the gun that had appeared and caught his arm in time.

Rachel--then this was something about Rachel? Hazlitt ... Rachel. What?

A fight over Rachel? Rachel gone, dead for always. Get the gun away, though....

They were stumbling across the room, twisting and locked together. He saw von Stinnes rise, stand undecided. Mathilde's face, like something shooting by outside a car window. And a strong man trying to kill him ... for Rachel. A Galahad for Rachel.

His thought faded into a rage. A curse as the man grabbed at his throat.

The gun was still in the air. His wrist was beginning to ache from struggling with the thing. This was part of the idiocy of things. But he must look out. Perhaps only a moment more to live. The man was weeping.

Mumbling ... ”you made a fool out of her ... You dirty....”

As they continued their stumbling and clutching, a fury entered Dorn.

He became aware of eyes blazing against him--drunken, furious eyes that were weeping. With a violent lunge he twisted the gun out of the man's hand. There was an instant of silence and the man came hurling against him.

Dorn fired. Down ... ”my head ...” He lay still. The body of Hazlitt sprawled over him. For a moment the two men remained embraced on the floor. Then the body of Hazlitt rolled slowly from on top. It fell on its back--a dead face covered with blood staring emptily at the ceiling.

Dorn, with the edge of an iron table foot embedded in his head, lay breathing unevenly, his eyes closed.

CHAPTER X

The blinds were drawn. Cheering drifted in through the open window.