You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!" laughed the banker, admiringly.

Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he
gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall.
Re-entering the banking room he said:

"I'm in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her
that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won't be able to see
her until late tonight."

Miss Benham's name was on the tip of the banker's tongue, but, glancing at
Corrigan's face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand
of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.

Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows
furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his
mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham,
of the actual situation--nor would he. But during his first visit to town
that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across
the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss
Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and
after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From
there he had seen "Brand" Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison
made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in
the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets
rarely. Trevison's appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.

He had noticed Trevison's start upon getting his first glimpse of the
private car on the siding. He had followed Trevison's movements carefully,
and with increased disquiet. For, instead of dismounting and going into a
saloon or a store, Trevison had urged the black on, past the private car,
which he had examined leisurely and intently. The clear morning air made
objects at a distance very distinct, and as Trevison had ridden past the
car, Corrigan had seen a flutter at one of the windows; had caught a
fleeting glimpse of Rosalind Benham's face. He had seen Trevison ride
away, to return for a second view of the car a few minutes later. At
breakfast, Corrigan had not failed to note Miss Benham's lingering glances
at the black horse, and again, in the bank, with her standing at the door,
he had noticed her interest in the black horse and its rider. His
quickly-aroused jealousy and hatred had driven him to the folly of
impulsive action, a metho