"Well," he said slowly, "that is over."

Amber, without speaking, went to his side and touched his shoulder with
that pitifully inadequate gesture of sympathy which men so frequently
employ.

"I killed him," said Rutton dully.

"Yes," replied Amber. He was not surprised; he had apprehended the
tragedy from the moment that Rutton had fled him, speechless; the
feeling of horror that he had at first experienced had ebbed, merged
into a sort of apathetic acknowledgment of the inevitable.

After a bit Rutton turned to the table and drew an automatic pistol
from his pocket, opening the magazine. Five cartridges remained in the
clip, showing that two had been exploded. "I was not sure," he said
thoughtfully, "how many times I had fired." His curiosity satisfied, he
reloaded the weapon and returned it to his pocket. "He died like a
dog," he said, "whimpering and blaspheming in the face of eternity ...
out there in the cold and the night.... It was sickening--the sound of
the bullets tearing through his flesh...."

He shuddered.

"Didn't he resist?" Amber asked involuntarily.

"He tried to. I let him pop away with his revolver until it was empty.
Then...."

"What made you wait?"