Mr. Hawkins once more reached for the inventory, and carefully examined the figures. Finally he said: “Pardon me, Mr. Thurston, for the observation. But you should have sent for me before the option was signed, if you did not really intend to carry out its terms. I find that you have twenty-six thousand head of cattle, and you say that the price of cattle is very high just now—that the whole herd ought to average forty dollars a head. This item alone makes one million and forty thousand dollars, or, in other words, if they exercise the option and pay you the first million dollars, they will have forty thousand dollars more than the payment which they make at that time.” The lawyer pencilled down the figures while he spoke. Ben Thurston had been listening with a gloomy look on his brow. But when he saw the figures translated into dollars he fairly bounced from his chair, walked rapidly up and down the room, and then, coming to a sudden halt, shouted: “By God, that’s where they got me again. I see it all now; these fellows were a damned sight too smart for me. Well, Hawkins, you are my attorney. I don’t want to go on with this deal, even if they are able to dig up the money.” The lawyer puffed at his cigar, wholly undisturbed, and then replied: “Mr. Thurston, you have already made a sale.” “No, by God, I haven’t; nothing of the kind,” replied Thurston. “The truth is that I should get ten million dollars for this ranch, and keep all my horses and cattle, too. I don’t propose to be fleeced by that Los Angeles outfit either,” he continued, running his hands through his hair. “I have it; we’ll break the contract. I’ll bet that option is so faulty that you can drive a load of hay right through it. Hunt up a flaw and we will send them back their option money. I don’t want their $100,000 now.” “I have already carefully studied the paper,” replied Hawkins, “and can find no flaw in it. It was evidently drawn by a master hand.” “Master hand be damned,” thundered Thurston. “Why, the stiff wasn’t even a lawyer. He was just one of the syndicate—the one I told you about a while back. He knows so cussed much about titles that the other fellows let him write the option.” “I see,” replied the attorney, as a half-smile flitted over his face; “about all you seemingly had to do was to sign the option papers and count the option money. The sole hope you have now, Mr. Thurston, in my opinion, is for those Los Angeles gentlemen to let this valuable option lapse. You have only a few days to wait.” “But I haven’t told you the worst yet,” said Thurston sullenly, dropping again into his chair. “What do you mean?” “I had a long-distance telephone this morning from the First National Bank at Los Angeles saying that the million dollars due April 1st has been already paid in to my credit. But I won’t touch the money—I’ll be damned if I do.”