At first he was only mildly disturbed at the appearance of the interior; for nothing had been done to bring order out of the chaos he had created the night before, and the condition of the furniture, and the atmosphere of gloomy emptiness that greeted him indicated nothing. The terror under which the girl had labored during the night might still be gripping her. He had no suspicion that the girl had left the house until after he had looked into all the rooms but the one occupied by Parsons. Then a conviction that she _had_ fled seized him; he scowled and leaped to the door of Parsons’ room, pounding heavily upon it. Parsons did not answer his knock, and an instant later, when Carrington forced the door and stepped into the room, he saw Parsons standing near a window, pallid and shaking. With a bound Carrington reached Parsons’ side and gripped the man by the collar of his coat. “Where’s Miss Harlan?” he demanded. He noted that Parsons swayed in his grasp, and he peered at the other with a malignant joy. He had always hated Parsons, tolerating him because of Parsons’ money. “She’s gone,” whispered Parsons tremulously. “I—I tried to stop her, knowing you wouldn’t want it, but—she went away—anyway.” “Where?” Carrington’s fingers were gripping Parsons’ shoulder near the throat with a bitter, viselike strength that made the man cringe and groan from the pain of it. “Don’t, Jim; for God’s sake, don’t! You’re hurting me! I—I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t stop her!” The abject, terrified appeal in his eyes; the fawning, doglike subjection of his manner, enraged Carrington. He shook the little man with a force that racked the other from head to heel. “Where did she go—damn you!” “To the Arrow.” Aroused to desperation by the flaming fury that blazed in Carrington’s eyes, Parsons tried to wrench himself free, tugging desperately, and whining: “Don’t, Jim!” For he knew that he was to be punished for his dereliction. He shrieked when Carrington struck him; a sound which died in his throat as the blow landed. Carrington left him lie where he fell, and went out to the men, interrogating the one he had seen on the front porch. From that person he learned that no one had left the house since the men had come; so that Carrington knew Marion must have departed soon after he had left the night before—or some time during the time of his departure and the arrival of the men. Ten minutes after emerging from the house he went in again. Parsons was sitting on the floor of his room, swaying weakly back and forth, whining tonelessly, his lips loose and drooling blood. For an instant Carrington stood over him, looking down at him with a merciless, tigerlike grin. Then he stooped, gripped Parsons by the shoulders, and, lifting him bodily, threw him across the bed. Parsons did not resist, but lay, his arms flung wide, watching the big man fearfully. “Don’t hit me again, Jim!” he pleaded. “Jim, I’ve never done anything to you!”