THE FATAL SHOT
"Thank God, Una," Jack cried, "you remember it now even better than
I do!"
"Remember it!" I answered, holding my brow with my hands to keep the
flood of thought from bursting it to fragments. "Remember it! Why,
it comes back to me like waves of fire and burns me. I remember
every word, every act, every gesture. I lifted my head slowly, Jack,
and looked over the screen at him. In the twilight, I saw him
there--the man I called my father--holding the bottle to your face,
that wicked bottle of chloroform, with his revolver in one hand, and
a calm smile like a fiend's playing hatefully and cruelly round that
grave-looking mouth of his. I never saw any man look so ghastly in
my life. I was rooted to the spot with awe and terror. I dared
hardly cry out or move. Yet I
