In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window.  Sooner or later the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the dark interior; otherwise, he would not be human.  And, sure enough, presently the faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle of faint light.  Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired.  At once there was a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other side of the room.  Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair’s gun, and the bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair.  As for Sinclair’s own bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window.

“No good, Riley,” sang out the voice.  “This wall’s too thick for a Colt.”

Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun in readiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright.  There was the prime necessity.  Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a storm of voices broke in upon him.

At the same time Cartwright’s gun spat fire again.  The bullet buzzed angrily above Sinclair’s head.  His own brought a yell of pain, sharp as the yelp of a coyote.

“Keep quiet, Cartwright,” ordered the man at the window.  “You’ll get yourself killed if you keep risking it.  Sheriff!”

His voice rose and rang.

“Blow the lock off’n that door.  We got him!”

There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash of broken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight into the room.  The light showed Sinclair one thing—­the dull outlines of Cartwright.  He whipped up his gun and then hesitated.  It would be murder.  He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing in a clear light before his enemy.  He knew that he could not kill this rat he detested.  He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set his teeth.  Still he could not fire.

“Cartwright,” he said softly, “I got you covered.  Your right hand’s on the floor with your gun.  Don’t raise that hand!”

In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed.  The revolver still glimmered on the floor.

A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair—­to rush straight for the window, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to the ground.  “Scatter back!” called the man on the ledge.

That settled the last chance of Sinclair.  There were guards on the ground, scattered about the house.  He could never get out that way.

“Keep out of the light by the door,” commanded the man at the window.  “And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side of the room—­and aim low down.  It may take time, but we’ll get him!”

Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair to deny it.  He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an old gambler.  He had tried his desperate coup and had failed.  There was nothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still more desperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a final play.