But the words of the old money-grabber angered Clayton less than
Ferris' effusive friendly epistles from Detroit.

"I can excuse Worthington," growled Clayton, as he paced his private
room like a caged tiger. "He has his old crime to cover up, his
only daughter to shield, his vast plans to further. I am only a poor
pawn in his fevered game of life; but Ferris, 'mine own familiar
friend,' he is a traitor, a needless traitor, to his black heart's
core.

"For it is the sale of a soul, his dirty traffic in my heart's
secrets, a Benedict Arnold of the heart, for mere dirty gain. And
his cold ensnaring of this innocent girl is an outrage; it is a
crime to make her the hostage of Senator Durham's corrupt friendship."

And yet, mindful of Jack Witherspoon's counsel, he took up the
trade of an honest Iago, and hid his raging hatred behind the mask
of an olden gratitude to the one, a loyal friendship to the other.

The searchlight of his mind was turned only on the Western conspirators,
and he feared no villainy in the world save the Detroit schemer who
had robbed him of his birthright. "By Heavens! I'll give up trade,
the service of this greedy octopus. I will go abroad and so escape
Worthington's vengeance, and Ferris' duplicity."

He began to secretly watch every one of the leading New York officials
of the company in order to detect Ferris' successor in the hidden
watch upon his movements.