ON the very night of Pierre Luzon’s return, Ben Thurston was in close colloquy with his attorney, summoned specially from New York. It was not only the murder of his son that had brought about this consultation. The owner of San Antonio Rancho, while filled with fury against Dick Willoughby, was also gravely perturbed over other things. Immediately after dinner the two men shut themselves up in Thurston’s office.

Thurston opened the safe and produced a little bundle of neatly-folded, legal-looking documents.

“These are the option papers,” he said gruffly, as he tossed them across the table to the lawyer. “Look them over, Mr. Hawkins.”

The attorney glanced through the documents in a preliminary way.

“I see the first big payment falls due on April 1st,” he remarked.

“Yes, April 1st,” responded Thurston, “and I was a damned fool, too, to let that Trust Company fellow inveigle me into making the date April 1st, instead of March 1st. You see,” he went on, “the taxes come due on March 1st, and on this principality they amount to quite a pretty figure, I can tell you.”

“How much?”

“Oh, about $18,000.”

The lawyer again read the papers through, this time more carefully.

“Well, Mr. Thurston,” he said, as he lighted a cigar and sat back in his chair, “I left some very important matters to come to you in answer to your imperative message. What’s the work in hand?”

“Why, this option for one thing; and then, too, I want you to help me put the noose around the neck of that scoundrel who killed my son.”

“We’ll take one thing at a time, please,” replied the attorney, speaking slowly and quietly. “So far as this option on the rancho is concerned, it seems to be quite regular. Nevertheless, five million dollars is a whole lot of money. Is there any danger of their forfeiting their option payment of $100,000?”

“Danger? Forfeiting?” ejaculated Ben Thurston. “Well, I’m not at all afraid of that. My fear now is that they may take up the option.”

“Why, didn’t you wish to make the sale?”

“Yes, but I am not getting money enough. The ranch is really worth ten million dollars today, in cold cash. I have recently had some San Francisco capitalists down here appraising it for me, but I had already given the option.”

“I see that the agreement provides for your cattle and horses going in at the stipulated price.”

“Yes, I don’t know why I should have been so infernally stupid. But you see those Los Angeles fellows came over here one day in an automobile and stayed all night. We had a sort of a tiff—didn’t agree very well—and I let them start away the next morning without their breakfast—rather uncivil, I’ll admit. After they had gone I got to thinking matters over, and I sent a telephone message along the road to stop them and ask them to come back. They returned all right. There was one of their number, this fellow from some Title and Trust Company, who was pretty warm under the collar, and, if I do say it myself, was as peeved as hell at me. Well, he was the one who drew up the agreement, sitting here at this table. The paper looked all right to me, and so I just went ahead and signed. I know now they caught me for the $18,000 of taxes because I didn’t just insist on having the option expire March 1st, instead of April 1st. But, to be frank with you, I really didn’t much mind, for at that time I was only keen to get their $100,000 for the option, never believing for a moment that they would come across with the million-dollar first payment due April 1st. You see the cattle and horses and all the stock on the ranch was a sort of sheaf of oats that I hung out in order to get them to put up their option money—just so much bait.”

Mr. Hawkins shrugged his shoulders and said: “Well, Mr. Thurston, judging from this inventory before me, you certainly hung up a most generous bait.”

“I didn’t stop to think—that’s all there is to be said. All these details hadn’t been worked out into cold figures at the time I gave the option. When these men were here I just wanted to wheedle them into a bargain which would leave a cool $100,000 in my hands. I never for one moment believed they could make the million-dollar payment, although, by God, I begin to realize the danger of their doing so now.”

The lawyer looked up in silent surprise. Thurston continued:

“Of course I should have had this detailed valuation made before I went into the deal. Up to the time I read that inventory I had no real idea of the increased value of the property and what was on it. Oh, you may shake your head; I’m not a good business man—never cared a damn for business—and I know quite well I haven’t given enough attention to the ranch. You see I have been living mostly in the East, for good reasons. I don’t like it here at all—I’ve never felt safe in California,” and he glanced nervously at the window of the room, as if some enemy were lurking there.

Mr. Hawkins once more reached for the inventory, and carefully examined the figures. Finally he said: “Pardon me, Mr. Thurston, for the observation. But you should have sent for me before the option was signed, if you did not really intend to carry out its terms. I find that you have twenty-six thousand head of cattle, and you say that the price of cattle is very high just now—that the whole herd ought to average forty dollars a head. This item alone makes one million and forty thousand dollars, or, in other words, if they exercise the option and pay you the first million dollars, they will have forty thousand dollars more than the payment which they make at that time.” The lawyer pencilled down the figures while he spoke.

Ben Thurston had been listening with a gloomy look on his brow. But when he saw the figures translated into dollars he fairly bounced from his chair, walked rapidly up and down the room, and then, coming to a sudden halt, shouted: “By God, that’s where they got me again. I see it all now; these fellows were a damned sight too smart for me. Well, Hawkins, you are my attorney. I don’t want to go on with this deal, even if they are able to dig up the money.”

The lawyer puffed at his cigar, wholly undisturbed, and then replied: “Mr. Thurston, you have already made a sale.”

“No, by God, I haven’t; nothing of the kind,” replied Thurston. “The truth is that I should get ten million dollars for this ranch, and keep all my horses and cattle, too. I don’t propose to be fleeced by that Los Angeles outfit either,” he continued, running his hands through his hair. “I have it; we’ll break the contract. I’ll bet that option is so faulty that you can drive a load of hay right through it. Hunt up a flaw and we will send them back their option money. I don’t want their $100,000 now.”

“I have already carefully studied the paper,” replied Hawkins, “and can find no flaw in it. It was evidently drawn by a master hand.”

“Master hand be damned,” thundered Thurston. “Why, the stiff wasn’t even a lawyer. He was just one of the syndicate—the one I told you about a while back. He knows so cussed much about titles that the other fellows let him write the option.”

“I see,” replied the attorney, as a half-smile flitted over his face; “about all you seemingly had to do was to sign the option papers and count the option money. The sole hope you have now, Mr. Thurston, in my opinion, is for those Los Angeles gentlemen to let this valuable option lapse. You have only a few days to wait.”

“But I haven’t told you the worst yet,” said Thurston sullenly, dropping again into his chair.

“What do you mean?”

“I had a long-distance telephone this morning from the First National Bank at Los Angeles saying that the million dollars due April 1st has been already paid in to my credit. But I won’t touch the money—I’ll be damned if I do.”

“You have no choice but to accept it,” said the lawyer. “It would be foolish to deceive yourself; San Antonio Rancho is sold, and with the payment just made, you, by the terms of your contract, are compelled to give immediate possession. I can only advise you to take your medicine like a man, but don’t let those Los Angeles gentlemen know that you are swallowing a bitter dose.” He refolded the papers, and pushed them across the table. “Now, Mr. Thurston, if there is anything I can do to assist you in the prosecution of your son’s murderer, I stand ready to do so.” Ben Thurston arose.

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow. I’ll hang Dick Willoughby right enough in good time. Meanwhile you tell me the rancho is sold—that I have lost my great estate for less than half its value? Hell! Isn’t that enough for one night?” And he stalked wrathfully out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“He sold at the wrong price,” mused the lawyer with a quiet smile. “Perhaps he’ll be trying next to hang the wrong man.”