right; and you'd better get Phelps—or one of the other men, if he isn't in—to sit at his left. But you're not to make any move until I give the signal. Then you can arrest him."
When Heath had returned with Phelps and they had taken their seats at the table, Vance said:
"I'd advise you, Sergeant, to be on your guard. The minute the Major knows he's in for it, he'll go bald-headed for you."
Heath smiled with heavy contempt.
"This isn't the first man I've arrested, Mr. Vance—with many thanks for your advice. And what's more, the Major isn't that kind; he's too nervy."
"Have it your own way," replied Vance indifferently. "But I've warned you. The Major is cool-headed; he'd take big chances, and he could lose his last dollar without turning a hair. But when he is finally cornered, and sees ultimate defeat, all his repressions of a lifetime, having had no safety-valve, will explode physically. When a man lives without passions or emotions or enthusiasms, there's bound to be an outlet some time. Some men explode, and some commit suicide,—the principle is the same: it's a matter of psychological reaction. The Major isn't the self-destructive type,—that's why I say he'll blow up."
Heath snorted.
"We may be short on psychology down here," he rejoined, "but we know human nature pretty well."
Vance stifled a yawn, and carelessly lit a cigarette. I noticed, however, that he pushed his chair back a little from the end of the table where he and I were sitting.
