that bunch of cattle off the cliff?"

"No. But did you scatter those twenty head of mine?"

"No. Both mere accidents undoubtedly. Second, did you advise setting
an ambush for me?"

"No. That was--no matter who. I talked them out of it, and was sorry
for it afterwards."

"But you did say you'd drive me out of the Park."

"Yes, and I'd have done it any way short of--"

"Sending me out in a coffin! But we all lost our tempers, of course."

"And with good reason on our side," retorted Huntington stoutly.

"Perhaps. But I'll ask you to remember that everything I did was open
and aboveboard. If any of your cattle strayed, if any of _your_ fences
were cut, I had nothing to do with it."

"I believe you--now, after what Thursby's told me."

"Thank you. We make progress. But there are two things more. Who cut
the fence of my winter pasture?"

For a moment Huntington was silent, his face reddening.

"I did that," he replied at length, half defiantly, but in great
confusion.

"But why? There was nothing to be gained by that. There were no cattle
in the pasture or near it."

Huntington hesitated, shifting his weight uneasily from his left foot
to his right, and back again to the left. Then he looked at Marion,
saw the appeal in her eyes, and plunged.

"I wanted to make you angry."

"To make me angry?"

"To make you do something reckless."

Haig studied him, and saw that he was dealing with a man who was in
some respects, and for all his physical strength, a boy--a child. He
felt his anger rising, but put it down resolutely.

"That was very foolish, Huntington!" he said, with some sharpness. "It
certainly made me furious, as you saw later at the post-office."

"But you were wrong to call me a liar and a thief. And that's
something you've got to--"

"Got to what?" demanded Haig quickly.

Huntington did not answer at once. Claire's face, already as pale as
it could well be, became drawn and ashen, while Marion, seeing the
danger, unconsciously took a step forward, as if to throw herself
between the two men. For some tense seconds Huntington and Haig faced
each other belligerently.

"Got to what, Huntington?" repeated Haig. "There's nothing I've _got_
to do."

Huntington had not meant the "got" in the sense in which it was taken
by Haig. He had begun to say, "You've got to admit that was pretty
hard." But his unfortunate pause on the uncompleted sentence had
justified Haig in putting the worst possible co