And Taylor’s manner was as quietly deliberate and nonchalant as though he had merely stepped into the room for a social visit. His gaze swept the three men. “Framing up—again, eh?” he said, with drawling emphasis. “You sure did a good job for a starter. I just stepped in to say a few words to you—all of you. To you first, Littlefield.” And now his eyes held the judge—they seemed to squint genially at the man. “I happen to know that our big, sleek four-flusher here”—nodding toward Carrington—“came here to loot Dawes. Quite accidentally, I overheard him boasting of his intentions. Danforth was sent here by Carrington more than a year ago to line things up, politically. I don’t know how many are in the game—and I don’t care. You are in it, Littlefield. I saw that by the delight you took in informing me of the decision of the attorney-general. I just stepped in to tell you that I know what is going on, and to warn you that you can’t do it! You had better pull out before you make an ass of yourself, Littlefield!” The judge’s face was crimson. “This is an outrage, Taylor!” he sputtered. “I’ll have you jailed for contempt of court!” “Not you!” gibed Taylor, calmly. “You haven’t the nerve! I’d like nothing better than to have you do it. You’re a little fuzzy dog that doesn’t crawl out of its kennel until it hears the snap of its master’s fingers! That’s all for you!” He grinned at Danforth, felinely, and the man flushed under the odd gleam in the eyes that held his. “I can classify you with one word, Dave,” he declared; “you’re a crook! That lets you out; you do what you are told!” He now ignored the others and faced Carrington. His grin faded quickly, the lips stiffening. But still there was a hint of cold humor in his manner that created the impression that he was completely in earnest; that he was keenly enjoying himself and that he did not feel at all tragic. And yet, underlying the mask of humor, Carrington saw the passionate hatred Taylor felt for him. Carrington sneered. He attempted to smile, but the malevolent bitterness of his passions turned the smile into a hideous smirk. He had hated Taylor at first sight; and now, with the jealousy provoked by the knowledge that Taylor had turned his eyes toward Marion Harlan, the hatred had become a lust to destroy the other. Before Taylor could speak, Carrington stepped toward him, thrusting his face close to Taylor’s. The man was in the grip of a mighty rage that bloated his face, that made his breath come in great labored gasps. He had not meant to so boldly betray his hatred, but the violence of his passions drove him on. He knew that Taylor was baiting him, mocking him, taunting him; that Taylor’s words to the judge and to Danforth had been uttered with the grimly humorous purpose of arousing the men to some unwise and precipitate action; he knew that Taylor was enjoying the confusion he had brought. But Carrington had lost his self-control.