The words of the convict rang in his ears. "This is your job. I
did not agree to commit murder for you."
Murder had no place in the insanity of James Rutlidge To destroy
innocence, to kill virtue, to murder a soul--these are commonplaces in the
insane philosophy of his kind. But to kill--to take a life
deliberately--the thought was abhorrent to him. He was not educated to the
thought of _taking_ life--he was trained to consider its _perversion_. The
heroes in _his_ fiction did not _kill_ men--they _betrayed_ women. The
heroines in his stories did not desire the death of their betrayers--they
loved them, and deserted their husbands for them.
But to stand idly aside and permit Sibyl Andres to be taken from him--to
face the exposure that would inevitably follow--was impossible. If the man
who had struck the trail was alone, there might still be a chance--if he
could be stopped. But how could he check him? What could he do? A
rifle-shot might bring a dozen searchers.
While these thoughts were seething in his hot brain, he was climbing
rapidly toward the cliff at the head of the gorge, across which, he knew,
the man who was following the tracks that led to the cabin below, must
come.
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