Danforth seated himself in a chair near one of the front windows and waited, for he knew Carrington still had something to say to him—the man’s eyes told him, for they were alight with a cold, speculative gleam as they rested on Danforth. At last, after a silence that lasted long, Carrington said, shortly: “What do you know about Taylor?” “What I told you before—the first day. And that isn’t much.” “I had a talk with Parsons the other day—about Larry Harlan,” said Carrington. “It seems that Larry Harlan worked for Taylor—for two or three years. I didn’t question Parsons closely about the connection between Taylor and Harlan, but it seems to me that Parsons mentioned a mine. What about it? Do you know anything about it?” Danforth related what he knew regarding the incident of the mine—the story told by Taylor when he returned after Larry Harlan’s death—and Carrington’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Do you think he told a straight story?” he asked. He watched Danforth intently. “Hell, yes!” declared the other. “He’s too square to lie!” Five minutes later Carrington said good-night to Danforth. But Carrington did not immediately go to bed; he sat for a long time in a chair near the window looking out at the buildings of Dawes. In the courtroom early the next morning he leaned over Judge Littlefield’s desk, smiling. “Did you ever hear of Quinton Taylor being connected with a mining venture?” “Well, rather.” “Where?” “At Nogel—in the Sangre de Christo Mountains.” “How far is that?” “About ten miles—due west.” “What do you know about the mine?” “Very little. Taylor and a man named Lawrence Harlan registered the claim here. I heard that Harlan died—was killed in an accident. Soon afterward, Taylor sold the mine—to a man named Thornton—for a consideration, not mentioned.” The judge looked sharply at Carrington. “Why this inquiry?” he asked; “do you think there is anything wrong about the transaction?” “There is no determining that until an investigation is made.” Carrington laughed as he left the judge. Later he got on his horse and rode to the big house. On the front porch, seated in a chair, smoking, he saw one of the men Danforth had sent in obedience to his order; at the rear of the house was another; and, lounging carelessly on the grass near the edge of the butte fringing the big valley, he saw still another—men who seemed to find their work agreeable, for they grinned at Carrington when he rode up. Carrington dismounted and entered the house—by one of the rear doors—which he had wrecked the night before. He went in boldly, grinning, for he anticipated that by this time Marion Harlan would have reached that stage of intimidation where she would no longer resist him.