“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. “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. Cahill crossed the room to the door and, throwing it open, called, “Corporal of the guard!” As he spoke, Captain Carr and Mrs. Bolland, accompanied by Miss Post and her aunt, were crossing the parade-ground. For a moment the post-trader surveyed them doubtfully, and then, stepping out upon the veranda, beckoned to them. “Here's a paper I've signed, captain,” he said; “I wish you'd witness my signature. It's my testimony for the court-martial.” “Then someone else had better sign it,” said Carr. “Might look prejudiced if I did.” He turned to the ladies. “These ladies are coming in to see Ranson now. They'll witness it.” Miss Cahill, from the other end of the veranda, and the visitors entered the room together.