On several occasions Carrington had betrayed greediness in the division of the spoils of their ventures. But Carrington was the strong man, ruthless and determined, and Parsons was forced to nurse his resentment in silence. He meant some day, however, to repay Carrington, and he lost no opportunity to harass him. And yet it had been Parsons who had brought Carrington to Westwood two years before. He knew Carrington; he knew something of the big man’s way with women, of his merciless treatment of them. And he had invited Carrington to Westwood, hoping that the big man would add Marion Harlan to his list of victims. So far, Carrington had made little progress. This fact, contrary to Parsons’ principles, had afforded the man secret enjoyment. He liked to see Carrington squirm under disappointment. He anticipated much pleasure in watching Carrington’s face when he should tell him where Marion had been the day before. He breakfasted alone—early—chuckling his joy. And shortly after he left the table he was on a horse, riding toward Dawes. He reached town about eight and went directly to Carrington’s rooms in the Castle. Carrington had shaved and washed, and was sitting at a front window, coatless, his hair uncombed, when Parsons knocked on the door. “You’re back, eh?” said Parsons as he took a chair near the window. “Danforth was telling me you went to see the governor. Did you fix it?” Carrington grinned. “Taylor was to take the oath today. He won’t take it—at least, not the sort of oath he expected.” “It’s lucky you knew the governor.” “H-m.” The grim grunt indicated that, governor or no governor, Carrington would not be denied. Parsons smirked. But Carrington detected an unusual quality in the smirk—something more than satisfaction over the success of the visit to the governor. There was malicious amusement in the smirk, and anticipation. Parsons’ expressed satisfaction was not over what _had_ happened, but over what was _going_ to happen. Carrington knew Parsons, and therefore Carrington gave no sign of what he had seen in Parsons’ face. He talked of Dawes and of their own prospects. But once, when Carrington mentioned Marion Harlan, quite casually, he noted that Parsons’ eyes widened. But Parsons said nothing on the subject which had brought him until he had talked for half an hour. Then, noting that his manner had aroused Carrington’s interest, he said softly: “This man, Taylor, seems destined to get in your way, doesn’t he?” “What do you mean?” demanded Carrington shortly. “Do you remember telling me—on the train, with this man, Taylor, listening—that your story to Marion, of her father having been seen in this locality, was a fairy tale—without foundation?” At Carrington’s nod Parsons continued: “Well, it seems it was not a fairy tale, after all. For Larry Harlan was in his section for two or three years!” “Who told you that?” Carrington slid forward in his chair and was looking hard at Parsons.