McCormick’s face paled a little as he gazed straight into the steady barrel of the weapon. But, though his face remained unmoved, his heart sank within him. What an idiot he had been not to prepare for this! Somehow, the idea that Jellison would be armed had never entered his head. He was so much superior, physically, to the older man that his ability to capture him had seemed a thing beyond question. “You fool!” sneered Jellison. “Did you think I’d let myself be pinched by a kid like you?” Archie smiled rather wryly. “I was careless, I admit,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t see that you’re out of the woods yet. What are you going to do about it, now that you have got the drop on me?” Jellison did not answer at once. As he stood thinking, a little of the triumph died out of his face and his forehead crinkled with a network of worried wrinkles. What was he going to do about it? He might get away himself—might even carry off the money; but would he get far? McCormick knew the truth, and, though the cashier might tie him up long enough to get a good start, the fellow would be released the instant his friends came back from their shooting, and the whole lot of them would be on his trail like a pack of hounds. Even if he did manage to get out of the country, what could he do then? The arm of the law was long. It would reach out inexorably after him over land and sea. He would be hounded from place to place, never resting, never secure, always knowing that he was followed, feeling sure that in the end tireless, never sleeping justice would find him out. It was maddening. To think that all his carefully laid plans should be thwarted by a mere boy! He had waited so many weary months for this moment only to have his triumph turn to dust and ashes in his mouth. Everything had gone so smoothly, too, from the very first. No one had suspected him for an instant. He had played his cards too well. The only stumbling block had been the sudden, unexpected turning against him of old Hickey. That had worried him intensely, but now Hickey was dead, and he had anticipated no further difficulty. To have the whole carefully reared edifice topple about his head like a ruined house of cards nearly drove him mad. His mind flashed swiftly on into the future. He saw the grip of the law closing about him inexorably. He would be captured, tried, sentenced. He would be a convict, walled into that hideous gray prison up the river, known only by a number, forced to do menial tasks. And what of his wife—the only human being in the world that he cared for, besides himself. What would she do? Cling to him? Help and comfort him, and buoy up his broken spirits? Visit him in his cell and wait faithfully for his release? No! Marion was not that sort. She would be furiously angry—hysterical, no doubt. She would bitterly bewail the moment when she first set eyes on him. Her love for him would turn to hate, and he would never see her again.