extract the last possible penny out of her. And in the meantime he must
concentrate on tripping up Terence Colby, alias Hollis.

Vance saw nothing particularly vicious in this. He had been idle so long
that he rejoiced in a work which was within his mental range. It included
scheming, working always behind the scenes, pulling strings to make
others jump. And if he could trip Terry and actually make him shoot a man
on or before that birthday, he had no doubt that his sister would
actually throw the boy out of her house and out of her life. A woman who
could give twenty-four years to a theory would be capable of grim things
when the theory went wrong.

It was early evening when he climbed off the train at Garrison City. He
had not visited the place since that cattle-buying trip of twenty-four
years ago that brought the son of Black Jack into the affairs of the
Cornish family. Garrison City had become a city. There were two solid
blocks of brick buildings next to the station, a network of paved
streets, and no less than three hotels. It was so new to the eye and so
obviously full of the "booster" spirit that he was appalled at the idea
of prying through this modern shell and getting back to the heart and the
memory of the old days of the town.

At the restaurant he forced himself upon a grave-looking gentleman across
the table. He found that the solemn-faced man was a travelling drummer.
The venerable loafer in front of the blacksmith's shop was feeble-minded,
and merely gaped at the name of Black Jack. The proprietor of the hotel
shook his head with positive antagonism.

"Of course, Garrison City has its past," he admitted, "but we are living
it down, and have succeeded pretty well. I think I've heard of a ruffian