Twice while getting into his clothes this morning Parsons chuckled audibly. There was malicious amusement in the sound.
Once he caught himself saying aloud:
“I knew it would come, sooner or later. And she’s picked out the clodhopper! This will tickle Carrington!”
Again he laughed—such a laugh as the good people of Westwood might have used had they known what Parsons knew—that Marion Harlan had visited a stranger at his ranchhouse—a lonely place, far from prying eyes.
Parsons hated the girl as heartily as he had hated her father. He hated her because of her close resemblance to her parent; and he had hated Larry Harlan ever since their first meeting.
Parsons likewise had no affection for Carrington. They had been business associates for many years, and their association had been profitable for both; but there was none of that respect and admiration which marks many partnerships.
On several occasions Carrington had betrayed greediness in the division of the spoils of their ventures. But Carrington was the strong man, ruthless and determined, and Parsons was forced to nurse his resentment in silence. He meant some day, however, to repay Carrington, and he lost no opportunity to harass him. And yet it had been Parsons who had brought Carrington to Westwood two years before. He knew Carrington; he knew something of the big man’s way with women, of his merciless treatment of them. And he had invited Carrington to Westwood, hoping that the big man would add Marion Harlan to his list of victims.
So far, Carrington had made little progress. This fact, contrary to Parsons’ principles, had afforded the man secret enjoyment. He liked to see Carrington squirm under disappointment. He anticipated much pleasure in watching Carrington’s face when he should tell him where Marion had been the day before.
He breakfasted alone—early—chuckling his joy. And shortly after he left the table he was on a horse, riding toward Dawes.
He reached town about eight and went directly to Carrington’s rooms in the Castle.