"You're back, Mr. Houston! I'm so glad. I didn't know whether to send the notice out to you in Colorado, or wire you. It just came yesterday." "The notice? Of what?" "The M. P. & S. L. call for bids. You've heard about it." But Houston shook his head. Jenkins stared. "I thought you had. The Mountain, Plains and Salt Lake Railroad. I thought you knew all about it." "The one that's tunneling Carrow Peak? I've heard about the road, but I didn't know they were ready for bids for the western side of the mountain yet. Where's the notice?" "Right on your desk, sir." Abstractedly, Houston picked it up and glanced at the specifications,--for railroad ties by the million, for lumber, lathes, station-house material, bridge timbers, and the thousands of other lumber items that go into the making of a road. Hastily he scanned the printed lines, only at last to place it despondently in a pocket. "Millions of dollars," he murmured. "Millions--for somebody!" And Houston could not help feeling that it was for the one man he hated, Fred Thayer. The specifications called for freight on board at the spurs at Tabernacle, evidently soon to have competition in the way of railroad lines. And Tabernacle meant just one thing, the output of a mill which could afford to put that lumber at the given point cheaper then any other. The nearest other camp was either a hundred miles away, on the western side, or so far removed over the range in the matter of altitude that the freight rates would be prohibitive to a cheaper bid. Thayer, with his ill-gotten flume, with his lake, with his right to denude Barry Houston's forests at an insignificant cost, could out-bid the others. He would land the contract, unless-- "Jenkins!" Houston's voice was sharp, insistent. The weazened man entered, rubbing his hands. "Yes, sir. Right here, sir." "What contracts have we in the files?" "Several, sir. One for mining timber stulls, logs, and that sort of thing, for the Machol Mine at Idaho Springs; one for the Tramway company in Denver for two thousand ties to be delivered in June; one for--" "I don't mean that sort. Are there any stumpage contracts?" "Only one, sir." "One? What!" "The one you signed, sir, to Thayer and Blackburn, just a week or so before you started out West. Don't you remember, sir; you signed it, together with a lease for the flume site and lake?" "I signed nothing of the sort!" "But you did, sir. I attested it. I'll show it to you in just a moment, sir. I have the copy right here." A minute later, Barry Houston was staring down at the printed lines of a copy of the contract and lease which had been shown him, days before, out in the mountains of Colorado. Blankly he looked toward the servile Jenkins, awaiting the return of the documents, then toward the papers again. "And I signed these, did I?" "You certainly did, sir. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon. I remember it perfectly." "You're lying!"