Dupont, for he was in a different sphere of life, was rich beyond
counting, and had been early nurtured in quiet Christian surroundings.
The spirit of ambition, rivalry, and the methods of a degenerate and
cruel finance had seized him, mastered him; so that, under the cloak of
power--as a toreador hides the blade under the red cloth before his enemy
the toro--he held a sword of capital which did cruel and vicious things,
at last becoming criminal also. Henderley had incited and paid; the
others, Dupont and Lygon, had acted and received. Henderley had had no
remorse, none at any rate that weighed upon him; for he had got used to
ruining rivals, and seeing strong men go down, and those who had fought
him come to beg or borrow of him in the end. He had seen more than one
commit suicide, and those they loved go down and farther down, and he had
helped these up a little, but not enough to put them near his own plane
again; and he could not see--it never occurred to him--that he had done
any evil to them. Dupont thought upon his crimes now and then, and his
heart hardened, for he had no moral feeling; Henderley did not think at
all. It was left to the man of the reedy lake to pay the penalty of
apprehension, to suffer the effects of crime upon a nature not naturally
criminal.

Again and again, how many hundreds of times, had Roger Lygon seen in his
sleep--had even seen awake so did hallucination possess him--the new
cattle trail he had fired for scores of miles. The fire had destroyed
the grass over millions of acres, two houses had been burned and three
people had lost their lives; all to satisfy the savage desire of one man,
to destroy the chance of a cattle trade over a great section of country
for the railway which was to compete with his own--an act which, in the
end, was futile, failed of its purpose. Dupont and Lygon had been paid
their price, and had disappeared, and been forgotten--they were but pawns
in his game--and there was no proof against Henderley. Henderley had