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An Eye for an Eye by William
A. Mc gerry. An almost imperceptible

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zephyr from the elm shaded avenue headed
through the raised windows of Clayton's beautiful mansion,

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swaying the silken curtains ever so slightly. A little cloud of pungent powder

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smoke lazily rose, disintegrated and was
carried away. Clayton, in evening dress,

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stood stupidly over the prone bodies of
Marsden, his lifelong chum, and

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she who had been his wife,
The revolver given him by the dead man

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on their first trip after big game
was in his hand. It was an

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automatic needing, but the slightest pressure
to let loose its messengers of death.

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A pool of blood from the breast
of the woman and stained the carpet a

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darker hue. She lay as she
had fallen, save her right arm,

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which thrown up in protection, had
limply relaxed and settled to her side.

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Her heaving breast had grown still and
no sound, But the breathing of Clayton

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broke the intense stillness. Marsden,
his features distorted in the death grin of

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fear, had not moved. His
body lay crumpled as though every bone were

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broken. A bell clang somewhere in
the house, but Clayton took no heed.

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It was followed by a crash,
and a squad of blue coats,

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led by the precinct Captain, entered
with drawn revolvers. The automatic was taken

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from Clayton's unresisting hand, and he
was manacled. No questions were asked,

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they were unnecessary. Time passed unnoticed, and Clayton sat mute and unseeing behind

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the narrow bars. He slept and
ate mechanically. The protestations of friendship and

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offers of help, which had plenteously
at first reached his cell, passed without

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answer, and now he was left
severely alone. Only once did he speak,

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just before the jury went out.
The unwritten law was his defense,

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he said, but little a word. Picture of his life as it had

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been before his one time friend stepped
in, a sketch of his ideals,

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the feelings that came to him when
he saw his home had been destroyed.

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That was all. Then again he
sank into the chair, silent, morose.

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Presently, a stir followed by a
death like hush, masked the return

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of the jury. A deep voice
sounded unnecessarily loud in the stifling stillness of

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the courtroom. Not guilty, it
said, as one in a dream.

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Clayton walked from the place he submitted
passively to congratulations dully without thought. He

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answered business questions from his lawyer,
whose face bore a look of conscious pride.

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At the victory. A taxicab called
by a friend stopped at the curb

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to receive him. He was sharply
reminded that he had not paid the fare.

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As he left the vehicle before the
door of his home home, the

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unspoken word jarred his nerves. Things
were sadly out of place. Why did

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this picture persist in staring at him? Why this old Japanese chair, his

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last birthday gift to her, always
bar his way? All the house seemed

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wrapped in an atmosphere of gloom and
despair. Voices called from corners behind chairs,

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and the suddenly lighted electrics revealed no
one. Petulantly, he invaded the

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upper regions of the house. A
drawer in his small bureau slid open,

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creaking to his pull. A blue, burnished automatic mate to that other,

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sparkled before his eyes. Unthinkingly,
his fingers closed over it. As in

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a dream. He wandered back to
that room he had left months ago.

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Manacled accused. He gazed unseeing into
the chilly blue barrel of the weapon in

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his hand. His eyes straight around, then fell on the dark stain on

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the rug. He forced himself to
look away. Then he found the stain

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again before his eyes. It seemed
to mock him, and once he thought

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he heard a chuckle. His blood
froze in his veins. As it dissolved,

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took shape and showed her face.
For many minutes, he gazed into

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her eyes. They were sad and
reproachful. Perhaps after all he had been

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wrong, hasty. He could see
her as she looked that first day they

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met, then as she looked on
their wedding day, and he had killed

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her, perhaps without cause. He
forgot that the jury of his peers had

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acquitted him, forgot everything except that
the fear of death to which he had

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sent her was on him. Summoning
all his will, he tore his gaze

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away from the dark, ominous stain. Again again, his eyes fastened on

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the blued muzzle of the revolver,
nervously toying with a safety catch, his

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fingers unloosed it. The whirr of
an automobile passing on the avenue grew less

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distinguishable. Then it took strength and
swelled into an eerie moan of anguish.

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It sounded to him like an accusation. Again, he called on his will,

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and unconsciously his muscles tightened, answering
the leaping surge of his heart.

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The double grip of the automatic released
a spring hidden in its perfect steel heart.

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As quick as thought itself, the
mechanism obeyed its law. An empty

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shell flew out with a snap,
and there was a dull thud, then

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silence outside. A blue coat idly
swinging his club and ruminating on the law

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which allowed a rich man to go
free, suddenly stiffened as the hound at

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bay, all sign of laziness left
him, and he bounded up the steps

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of the mansion two at a time. A whistle sounded for the second time.

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The massive front door was forced open
for the second time. A squad

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of police entered the gorgeously furnished parlor
of Clayton's home. An odor of powder

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smoke met them, strong and pungent. A rapidly enlarging pool of blood was

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darkening the outlines of the already dark, ugly stain on the rug. Open

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mouthed, the blue coat stood tense
and silent. A rattling of curtain rings

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boomed, almost deafening in their ears. Silently, the captain, he who

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had led that other squad, turned
and gestured, and the men filed out,

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leaving one on guard again. All
was silent, save for the whispering

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breeze, fanning the smoke, and
rustling the silken curtains. The end of

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an Eye for an Eye by William
A. Mc gerry