"Yes, Paris is certainly the place," he said. "Here's three hundred
dollars. I'll cable you the rest. You've never been to Paris, have
you? It's full of beautiful sights--Henry's American Bar, for
instance, and the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, and Maxim's. All good
Americans go to Paris when they die and all the bad ones while they
are alive. You'll find lots of both kinds, and you'll sit all day on
the sidewalk and drink Bock and listen to Hungarian bands. And Mary
and I will join you there and take you driving in the Bois. Now, you
start at once. I'll tell her you've gone to New York to talk it over
with father, and buy the ring. Then I'll say you've gone on to Paris
to rent us apartments for the honeymoon. I'll explain it somehow.
That's better than going to jail, isn't it, and making us bow our
heads in grief?"

Cahill, in his turn, approached the desk and, seating himself before
it, began writing rapidly.

"What is it?" asked Ranson.

"A confession," said Cahill, his pen scratching.

"I won't take it," Ranson said, "and I won't use it."

"I ain't going to give it to you," said Cahill, over his shoulder. "I
know better than that. But I don't go to Paris unless I leave a
confession behind me. Call in the guard," he commanded; "I want two
witnesses."

"I'll see you hanged first," said Ranson.