William Harris had come to West Virginia with the deliberate intention of inveigling him into this very trap. He had left New York with the entire scheme well planned. He had stopped at Bridgeport and told him the plausible story about what would happen to the combine, in order to arouse his interest and draw him into the plot and to account for his own presence in the cattle region. It was a shrewdly constructed tale, which, under the circumstances, the most cautious man in the business would have believed. The man winced as he recalled how cunningly Harris had forced him to do the very things he desired done, without appearing to even suggest them. There was the deposit of the fund in the partnership name,--that seemed all reasonable enough. It had not occurred to him that this money would then be subject to Harris's check as well as his own. Then, too, it was reasonable that he should go out and buy the cattle, and Harris ship them,--Harris was a commission-merchant by trade, and this division of the work was natural. Such a robbery had not occurred before in all the history of this business, and how fatally well all the circumstances and the customs of the trade fitted into the plan of this daring rascal! Then, like a benumbing ache, came the gradual appreciation of the magnitude of this loss. The cattle were worth twenty thousand dollars. He had agreed to pay Izzard that sum for the drove, and then there was the five thousand of his own money. Twenty-five thousand dollars in all. It was no small sum for the wealthiest to lose, and to this man in his despair it loomed large indeed. Financial ruin is an evil-featured demon at best. The grasp of his hand is blighting; the leer of his sunken face, maddening. It requires strong will to face the monster when one knows that he is coming, even after his shadow has been flitting across one's path for years. When he leaps down suddenly from the dark upon the shoulders of the unsuspecting passer-by, that one must be strong indeed if all that he possesses of virtue and honesty and good motive be not driven out from him. The old clock on the court-house struck five, its battered iron tongue crying out from above the place where men were accustomed to resort for Justice. The sound startled Woodford and reminded him of something. He arose and went to the window and stood looking at the gaunt old building. Yes, there was the Law. He had almost forgotten that, and the Law would not tolerate wrong. It hated the evil-doer, and hunted him down even to the death, and punished him. Men were often weak and half blind, but the Law was strong always, and its eyes were far-sighted. The world was not so large that the rogue could hide from it. In its strength it would seek him out and hold him responsible for the evil he had done. It stood ever in its majesty between the knave and those upon whom he sought to prey; its shadow, heavy with warning, lay always before the faces of vicious men.