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Speaker 1: An Eye for an Eye by William A. Mc gerry.

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An almost imperceptible zephyr from the elm shaded avenue headed

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through the raised windows of Clayton's beautiful mansion, swaying the

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silken curtains ever so slightly. A little cloud of pungent

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powder smoke lazily rose, disintegrated and was carried away. Clayton,

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in evening dress, stood stupidly over the prone bodies of Marsden,

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his lifelong chum, and she who had been his wife,

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The revolver given him by the dead man on their

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first trip after big game was in his hand. It

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was an automatic needing, but the slightest pressure to let

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loose its messengers of death. A pool of blood from

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the breast of the woman and stained the carpet a

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

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right arm, which thrown up in protection, had limply relaxed

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and settled to her side. Her heaving breast had grown

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still and no sound, But the breathing of Clayton broke

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the intense stillness. Marsden, his features distorted in the death

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grin of fear, had not moved. His body lay crumpled

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as though every bone were broken. A bell clang somewhere

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in the house, but Clayton took no heed. It was

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

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

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automatic was taken from Clayton's unresisting hand, and he was manacled.

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No questions were asked, they were unnecessary. Time passed unnoticed,

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and Clayton sat mute and unseeing behind the narrow bars.

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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,

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passed without answer, and now he was left severely alone.

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Only once did he speak, just before the jury went out.

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The unwritten law was his defense, he said, but little

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a word. Picture of his life as it had been

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before his one time friend stepped in, a sketch of

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his ideals, the feelings that came to him when he

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saw his home had been destroyed. That was all. Then

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again he sank into the chair, silent, morose. Presently, a

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stir followed by a death like hush, masked the return

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of the jury. A deep voice sounded unnecessarily loud in

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the stifling stillness of the courtroom. Not guilty, it said,

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as one in a dream. Clayton walked from the place

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he submitted passively to congratulations dully without thought. He answered

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business questions from his lawyer, whose face bore a look

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of conscious pride. At the victory. A taxicab called by

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a friend stopped at the curb to receive him. He

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was sharply reminded that he had not paid the fare.

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As he left the vehicle before the door of his

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home home, the unspoken word jarred his nerves. Things were

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sadly out of place. Why did this picture persist in

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staring at him? Why this old Japanese chair, his last

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

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house seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of gloom and despair.

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Voices called from corners behind chairs, and the suddenly lighted

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electrics revealed no one. Petulantly, he invaded the upper regions

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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

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that other, sparkled before his eyes. Unthinkingly, his fingers closed

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over it. As in a dream. He wandered back to

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that room he had left months ago. Manacled accused. He

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gazed unseeing into the chilly blue barrel of the weapon

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in his hand. His eyes straight around, then fell on

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the dark stain on the rug. He forced himself to

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look away. Then he found the stain again before his eyes.

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It seemed to mock him, and once he thought he

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heard a chuckle. His blood froze in his veins. As

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it dissolved, took shape and showed her face. For many minutes,

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he gazed into her eyes. They were sad and reproachful.

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Perhaps after all he had been wrong, hasty. He could

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see her as she looked that first day they met,

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then as she looked on their wedding day, and he

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had killed her, perhaps without cause. He forgot that the

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jury of his peers had acquitted him, forgot everything except

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that the fear of death to which he had sent

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

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his gaze away from the dark, ominous stain. Again again,

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his eyes fastened on the blued muzzle of the revolver,

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nervously toying with a safety catch, his fingers unloosed it.

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The whirr of an automobile passing on the avenue grew

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less distinguishable. Then it took strength and swelled into an

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eerie moan of anguish. It sounded to him like an accusation. Again,

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he called on his will, and unconsciously his muscles tightened,

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answering the leaping surge of his heart. The double grip

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of the automatic released a spring hidden in its perfect

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steel heart. As quick as thought itself, the mechanism obeyed

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its law. An empty shell flew out with a snap,

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and there was a dull thud, then silence outside. A

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blue coat idly swinging his club and ruminating on the

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law which allowed a rich man to go free, suddenly

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stiffened as the hound at bay, all sign of laziness

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left him, and he bounded up the steps of the

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mansion two at a time. A whistle sounded for the

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second time. The massive front door was forced open for

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the second time. A squad of police entered the gorgeously

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furnished parlor of Clayton's home. An odor of powder smoke

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

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blood was darkening the outlines of the already dark, ugly

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stain on the rug. Open mouthed, the blue coat stood

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tense and silent. A rattling of curtain rings boomed, almost

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deafening in their ears. Silently, the captain, he who had

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led that other squad, turned and gestured, and the men

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filed out, leaving one on guard again. All was silent,

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save for the whispering breeze, fanning the smoke, and rustling

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the silken curtains. The end of an Eye for an

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Eye by William A. Mc gerry