"Pooh! Those cheap toughs. They're nothing but tools. There's probably been a false transfer made to their names, but that's all; they were picked because they were fighters. Well, whoever picked them hasn't got the least suspicion of what he's started."
"Land titles are rotten things," growled Higgins. "Specially when land sharks are juggling them."
"They waited until the ditches were dug," mused Roger. "They didn't know it would make good land. And then they struck! Higgins, I'm going right down to Garman's and have a little talk with Senator Fairclothe."
"Bet you won't find him. Bet he's away selling this tract again to some other sucker."
But Higgins was wrong. Senator Fairclothe had not gone away. As Roger entered Garman's grounds, he saw Garman, the Senator and a man in long black coat and broad-brimmed black hat in conference upon the verandah. At his appearance Garman, lolling in a lawn chair, chuckled lazily; the Senator became as cold and pompous as the statue he hoped some day would commemorate his services to the Republic, and the black-hatted stranger closed his eyes to mere slits.
"Lo, Payne!" drawled Garman. "Come up out of the sun. You look all heated up."
He looked down at Roger, a smile on his lips as he noted the tenseness of the young man's expression.
"Worrying about something, Payne? Ideals been shattered? Ambition, love— Where's Annette, by the way?"
His chuckle rose to rumbling laughter.
Senator Fairclothe caught the black-clad stranger's eye and nodded stiffly. The man rose.