looked up at him, radiant, elusive, triumphant, with parted lips.

"Please to remember we were talking of Dick."

"Confound Dick! In this he doesn't count. I matter. And I'll show you."

He showed her in the one and only way. She struggled for a second in his
arms, and received his kiss with a little laugh. They had moved to the
far lintel of the door. Dick's world reeled red before his eyes. He
stood up and held the pistol pointed. Damn him! Damn him! He would kill
him. Kill him like a dog.

Some reflex motion of the brain prompted action. Feverishly he rammed a
charge of powder down the pistol. Wads? A bit of the newspaper lying on
the floor. Then a bullet. Then a wad rammed home. Then the cap. It was
done at lightning speed. Murder, red, horrible murder blazed in his
soul. Damn him! He would kill him. He started into the middle of the
room, just as they walked away, and he sprang to the door and levelled
the pistol.

Then reaction came. No. Not like a dog. He couldn't shoot his brother
like a dog. His arm fell helplessly at his side. He turned back again
into the room, staggering and knocking himself against the cases by the
walls, like a drunken man. The sweat rolled down his face. He put the
pistol beside the other on the table. For some moments he stood a
hulking statue, shaken as though stricken with earthquake, white-faced,
white-lipped, staring, with crossed, blue eyes, at nothing. At last he
recovered power of motion, drank another whiskey, and replaced bottle,
syphon, and glass in the cupboard.