"They usually do," said the other patiently.
"And you want me to arrest him on suspicion, eh?"
"Certainly. You're a county official, aren't you?"
"I'm an officer of the law."
"Well, that's the answer. We are obliged to turn such matters over to the local authorities. What do you suppose I'm telling you about the case for? When I give the word, you land him and—well, Uncle Sam will do the rest, never fear."
"That's all right, but supposin' he ain't the man you're after and he turns around and sues me for false arrest?"
"You can detain anybody on information and belief, my friend. Don't you know that?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Foss with commendable asperity. "Supposin' he's got a revolver?"
"He probably has,—but so have we. Don't worry. He won't have a chance to use it. Hello! Isn't that a man standing up there by that telephone pole? We'll just stroll up that way. Don't hurry. Keep cool. Talk about the drowning."
They were halfway up the hill before Courtney moved. Every nerve was aquiver as he raised himself to his feet and looked cautiously about. The thing he feared had come to pass, but even as he crouched there in the shelter of the bushes the means of salvation flashed through his mind. He realized that the next fifteen or twenty minutes would convince these dogged, experienced man chasers that their quarry had "got wind of them" and was in flight. The hunt would be on in grim earnest; the alarm would go out in all directions. Men would be watching for him at every cross-roads, every railway station, every village, and directing the hunt would be—these men who never give up until they "land" their man.