“He can’t get away.”
“I’m not so sure. And he’s armed.”
“He’ll strike for home to get his car.”
“Or to the office for money,” Weir exclaimed.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE FOURTH MAN
A last look Steele Weir had at the dead man on the floor before he turned to go in search of Sorenson. Not so astute or crafty as Judge Gordon, nor so intelligent as Sorenson, nor so belligerent as Burkhardt, he had been as rapacious and infinitely more cool-minded than any of the three. If anything, he was the one of them all to proceed to a crime, whether fraud or murder, in sheer cold blood and by natural craving. No uneasy conscience would have ever disturbed his rest: no remorse or pity ever stirred in his breast. He was the human counterpart of a bird of prey.
Well, he was dead now. Three of the quartette who had been joined by avarice and lawless actions were taken care of––Burkhardt a prisoner, Gordon dead by self-administered poison, Vorse by bullets. Almost did Steele Weir feel himself an embodiment of Fate, clipping the strands of these men’s power and lives as with shears. Sorenson alone remained to be dealt with and his freedom should be short.