“But at what a cost! I refer to my sister’s regard. No, no, the thing, if you had only been quick enough to see it, was for me to escape. It was a risk, of course, but a risk I gladly took for my sister’s sake. I would take longer ones for her.” “Do you mean that?” “Of course.” “Then take this revolver and go out and shoot yourself.” McVay looked very thoughtful. Then, he said gravely, “No, no, Holland. To take a risk is one thing,—to kill myself quite another. I have always had a strong prejudice against suicide. I think it a cowardly action. And it would be no help to you. She would not believe that I had committed suicide. She knows my views on the subject, and could imagine no motive. No, that would not do at all. I’m surprised at the suggestion. It is against my principles.” “Your principles!” Geoffrey sneered. Nevertheless, he was not a little altered in opinion. It had been something of a shock to him to find that he could not shoot at the critical instant. It had shaken his faith in himself. He began to doubt if he would be capable of sending the man to state’s prison when Cecilia besought his pity. His own limitations faced him. He was not the relentless judge he had supposed himself. Yet on the other hand, the remembrance of Vaughan and the other men he was representing held him to his idea of justice. “Sit down,” he said suddenly turning to McVay, “and write me out a list of everything you have stolen in this neighbourhood and where it is and how it may be obtained. Yes, I know it is difficult, but you had better try to do it for on the completeness of your list depends your only chance of avoiding the law. If I can return all properly, perhaps—I have a mine in Mexico, a hell on earth, where you can go if you prefer it to penal servitude. There won’t be much difference, except for the publicity of a trial. I’ve a man there who, when I give him his orders, would infinitely rather shoot you than take any risk of your getting away. Which will you have?” “Can you ask, Holland? Which will be easier for my sister?” “Sit down and write your list, then.” “An interesting occupation, mining,” observed McVay as he opened the portfolio. After this for a long time nothing was heard but the soft noise of the pencil and an occasional comment from the writer: “A rare piece that. I parted with it absurdly low, but the dealer was a connoisseur—appealed to my artistic side.” Things had gone on thus for perhaps an hour when a step sounded outside and the door bell rang. Both men jumped to their feet. “My God, Holland,” said McVay, “if that is the police, keep your wits about you or we are lost.” It was a revelation to Geoffrey to find how completely, as his alarm showed, he had cast in his interests with McVay’s. He stepped forward in silence and opened the door. Not the police, but a man in plain clothes was standing there.