“What do you think Morgan had in his clothes?” he questioned suddenly.
A slow flush of color stole into Haydon’s cheeks, then receded, leaving him a trifle pale. He laughed, with a pretense of mockery.
“You ought to know,” he said, a snarl in his voice. “You must have searched him.”
Harlan grinned with feline mirthlessness. And he stepped back a little, knowledge and satisfaction in his eyes.
For he had “looked Haydon over,” following Morgan’s instructions. He had purposely permitted Haydon to question him, expecting that during the exchange of talk the man would say something that would corroborate the opinion that Harlan had instantly formed, that Haydon was not to be trusted.
And Haydon’s snarl; the cupidity in his eyes, and his ill-veiled eagerness had convinced Harlan.
Harlan did not resent Haydon’s manner; he was too pleased over his discovery that Haydon possessed traits of character that unfitted him for an alliance with Barbara. And it would be his business to bring those traits out, so that Barbara could see them unmistakably.
He laughed lowly, dropping his gaze to Haydon’s belt; to his right hand, which hung limply near his pistol holster; and to the woolen shirt, with the silk handkerchief at the throat sagging picturesquely.
His gaze roved over Haydon—insolently, contemptuously; his lips twitching with the grim humor that had seized him. And Haydon stood, not moving a muscle, undergoing the scrutiny with rigid body, with eyes that had become wide with a queer sensation of dread wonder that was stealing over him; and with a pallor that was slowly becoming ghastly.
For he had no doubt that at last he had unwittingly aroused the demon in Harlan, and that violence, which he had wished to avoid, was imminent.