Cahill glanced around the room quickly. "I see," he cried. In his
eagerness he was almost smiling. "I'm to leave a confession and give
it to you."

"Confession! What rot!" cried Ranson.

"They can't prove anything against me. Everyone knows by now that
there were two men on the trail, but they don't know who the other
man was, and no one ever must know--especially Mary."

Cahill struck the table with his fist. "I won't stand for it!" he
cried. "I got you into this and I'm goin'--"

"Yes, going to jail," retorted Ranson. "You'll look nice behind the
bars, won't you? Your daughter will be proud of you in a striped
suit. Don't talk nonsense. You're going to run and hide some place,
somewhere, where Mary and I can come and pay you a visit. Say--
Canada. No, not Canada. I'd rather visit you in jail than in a
Montreal hotel. Say Tangier, or Buenos Ayres, or Paris. Yes, Paris is
safe enough--and so amusing."

Cahill seated himself heavily. "I trapped you into this fix, Mr.
Ranson," he said, "you know I did, and now I mean to get you out of
it. I ain't going to leave the man my Mame wants to marry with a
cloud on him. I ain't going to let her husband be jailed."

Ranson had run to his desk and from a drawer drew forth a roll of
bills. He advanced with them in his hand.