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.
He writhed inwardly at the thought. He could not stand it—he would not. He glared ferociously at McCormick. But for this fool who had accidentally stumbled upon his secret he would be safe. No one would suspect in a thousand years.
A sudden thought came into his mind, making even his callous nature shrink. He thrust it from him, but it returned again and again, whispering insidiously that it was the only way out.
He stole a stealthy glance at the youth before him. It would be possible. Only one life stood between him and utter ruin. He had an instinctive horror of staining his hands with blood, but what other course was there left him? With this fellow out of the way, he could hold up his head once more—could go his way through the world, apparently without a stigma.
It would be simple, too. He could manage it without suspicion falling upon him, if he used ordinary care. He had heard enough to know that McCormick was not one of the original hunting party. The fellow had gone to Middleberry that morning on an errand which he had not explained to the others. If he did not return, they would not be surprised. They would think he had gone back to New Haven.
It would be easy enough to get him into the woods. He could force him to carry the suit case full of money. That would be natural enough. The fellow would not suspect any other motive. Jellison knew something of the wide extent of the forest thereabouts. A body might lie hidden there for years without any one finding it.