"I see," said Hector. "Well, now's the time."
And he took off his greatcoat and gauntlet, revealing his scarlet tunic.
Cranbrook and Forshaw looked at each other and Forshaw paled a little under his ruddiness.
"What—are you going to do, sir?"
"I'm going to arrest him myself. Pah, I'll be all right. He daren't shoot me. Cranbrook, go round your scouts and tell them to keep a lookout in case he runs for it."
"But—God, sir, he'll kill you! He's stopped at nothing. He'll certainly shoot you. And what a target you're making of yourself!" exclaimed Cranbrook, his concern overcoming his deference.
"Best starve him out, sir," added Forshaw.
But Hector had long ago made up his mind. Better to be shot than to face dishonour; better to attempt the arrest himself than to force it on his subordinates. The crisis of the hunt had come and he did not intend to risk failure by leaving the work to another.
If Welland was to win, it would be through no fault of his.
He had faced death before this, with less cause. He could easily face it now.