“Do you remember telling me—on the train, with this man, Taylor, listening—that your story to Marion, of her father having been seen in this locality, was a fairy tale—without foundation?”
At Carrington’s nod Parsons continued:
“Well, it seems it was not a fairy tale, after all. For Larry Harlan was in his section for two or three years!”
“Who told you that?” Carrington slid forward in his chair and was looking hard at Parsons.
Parsons was enjoying the other’s astonishment, and Parsons was not to be hurried—he wanted to taste the flavor of his news; it was as good to his palate as a choice morsel of food to the palate of a disciple of Epicurus.
“It came in a sort of roundabout way, I understand,” said Parsons. “It seems that during your absence Marion made a number of inquiries about her father. Then a man named Ben Mullarky rode over to the house and told her that Larry had been in this country—that he had worked for the Arrow.”
“That’s Taylor’s ranch,” said Carrington. A deep scowl furrowed his forehead; his lips extended in a sullen pout.
Parsons was enjoying him. “Taylor again, eh?” he said softly. “First, he appears on the train, where he gets an earful of something we don’t want him to hear; then he is elected mayor, which is detrimental to our interests; then we discover that Larry Harlan worked for him. You’ll be interested to know that Marion went right over to the Arrow—in fact, she spent part of Monday there, and practically all of yesterday. More, Taylor has invited her to come whenever she wants to.”
“She went alone?” demanded Carrington.
“With Martha, my negro housekeeper. But that—” Parsons made a gesture of derision and went on: “Martha says Taylor was there with her, and that the two of them—with Martha asleep in the house—spent the entire afternoon on the porch, talking rather intimately.”