_“She?”_ groaned Norton, looking at his friend with bulging eyes that were haunted by a fear that Taylor’s brain _had_ cracked under the strain of the excitement he had undergone. He remembered now, that Taylor _had_ acted in a peculiar manner during the fight; that he had grinned all through it when he should have been in deadly earnest. “Plumb loco!” he muttered. And then he saw Taylor grinning broadly at him; and he was suddenly struck with the conviction that Taylor was not insane; that he was in possession of some secret that he was trying to confide to his friend, and that he had begun obliquely. Norton drew a deep breath of relief. “Lord!” he sighed, “you sure had me going. And you don’t know which ankle you sprained?” “I’ve clean forgot. And now she’ll find out that I’ve lied to her.” “_She?_” said Norton significantly. “Marion Harlan,” grinned Taylor. Norton caught his breath with a gasp. “You mean you’ve fallen in love with her? And that you’ve made her—Oh, Lord! What a situation! Don’t you know her uncle and Carrington are in cahoots in this deal?” “It’s my recollection that I told you about that the day I got back,” Taylor reminded him. And then Taylor told him the story of the bandaged ankle. When Taylor concluded, Norton lay back in his chair and regarded his friend blankly. “And you mean to tell me that all the time you were fighting Carrington and Danforth you were thinking about that ankle?” “Mostly all the time,” Taylor admitted. Norton made a gesture of impotence. “Well,” he said, “if a man can keep his mind on a girl while two men are trying to knock hell out of him, he’s sure got a bad case. And all I’ve got to say is that you’re going to have a lovely ruckus!” CHAPTER XV—GLOOM—AND PLANS Elam Parsons sat all day on the wide porch of the big house nursing his resentment. He was hunched up in the chair, his shoulders were slouched forward, his chin resting on the wings of his high, starched collar, his lips in a pout, his eyes sullen and gleaming with malevolence. Parsons was beginning to recover from his astonishment over the attack Carrington had made on him. He saw now that he should have known Carrington was the kind of man he had shown himself to be; for now that Parsons reflected, he remembered little things that Carrington had done which should have warned him. Carrington had never been a real friend. Carrington had used him—that was it; Carrington had made him think he was an important member of the partnership, and he had thought so himself. Now he understood Carrington. Carrington was selfish and cruel—more, Carrington was a beast and an ingrate. For it had been Parsons who had made it possible for Carrington to succeed—for he had used Parsons’ money all along—having had very little himself.