As he had supposed, Beynon's place was only a few hundred yards away, just over the crest of the nearest hill. The house was one of those old-fashioned ranch dwellings, two-storied and painted white, with a long veranda or «gallery» extending across the front.

Down the slope to the rear of the house was a large red barn, now partitioned down one side to provide a garage for Beynon's car. Adjoining it was a plank corral, which opened at the far end into a lushly grassed pasture. Grazing in it were a couple of riding horses and a few head of white-faced cattle. Beynon kept no employees; the ranch, if it could be called that, was merely a hobby with him. When business affairs took him away, a neighbor looked after his small amount of livestock.

Doc parked the car in the yard beneath a gnarled cottonwood tree. He got out, casually brushing at his clothes, and looked around. It was very quiet. The big old house, with its shadow-black windows, seemed never to have been occupied. Beynon's car-a threeyear-old model-was in the garage, but there was no sign of him.

Doc strolled across the yard, whistling tunelessly, softly. He stepped up on the porch. The front door was open. Through the screen he called, "Beynon," and stood waiting, listening. There was no answer-no sound. But that in itself, the no-sound, the complete silence, was an answer.

Doc opened the screen. He slammed it again-from the outside. Then he stepped down from the porch and strode silently around the house to the back door. It also stood open, and the screen was unlatched. He peered in, eyes squinting against the shadows. With a soft sigh, he walked in.

Beynon sat at the long kitchen table, his head pillowed in his arms. On the checkered oilcloth in front of him was a tipped-over glass, and a half-empty quart bottle of whiskey.

Drunk, Doc thought, with less tolerance than was customary to him. The great man had troubles, so he got drunk.

Picking up a glass from the sink, he walked around the table and sat down opposite the parole chief. He poured himself a drink, took a sip of it, and lighted a cigarette. Deliberately he spewed smoke at the man across from him-it was probably the least startling way of any to wake him up. Beynon's head, with its wild mass of black hair, jerked irritably; then, abruptly, he sat up.

Except for a very faint thickness of speech, he seemed quite sober. Either he had spilled much more of the whiskey than he had drunk, or he had slept it off. His burning, black eyes were clear. They were as contemptuous, as knowing of Doc as they had been back at the prison.

Doc smiled, made a small gesture with his glass. "I hope you don't mind? It's been a rather trying day."

"Where's your wife?" Beynon said.

"We're traveling in different cars. She'll be along in an hour or so."

"How nice of her," Beynon said in his rich, musical voice. "How very, very nice of her to come to see me." He poured himself a drink, threw it down at a gulp. "Or perhaps she isn't," he said. "Perhaps her comings and goings have ceased for all time."

Doc shrugged idly. "If you're inferring that I killed her…"

"Where's Rudy, McCoy? Where's your friend Torrento? He's in another car, too?"

"Yes. And neither he nor the car is moving, in case you're interested. I thought you'd be primarily interested in knowing that I have the bank money in my car."

This was bait. Beynon didn't rise to it. Doc waved it at him again.

"You've received five thousand dollars from me, from my wife rather. I agreed to pay fifteen thousand more. Frankly-" Doc turned on his sincerest look, "frankly, I don't think that's enough, Mr. Beynon. We didn't get as much out of this job as we hoped to, but that's no fault of yours. And…"

"Three people have been killed so far, McCoy. Whose fault would you say that was?"

"Oh, now-" Doc spread his hands. "You mustn't feel…"

"Car-your wife told me that no one would be killed. She swore to it."

"I'm sorry. I imagine she was simply trying to spare your feelings. But getting back to the subject…"

"It's still murder, McCoy. How many more will there be before all this is over? If it is ever all over. How many more lives will I have on my hands?"

Doc hesitated, started to attempt some soothing comment. Then he leaned forward a little, spoke with abrupt bluntness. Beynon, he said, had best stop fretting about others. He had,or would have, plenty to worry about on his own account. "It's just a matter of time until the Beacon City job is pinned on me. When it is, the man responsible for my pardon-you, in other words-will have some very tough questions to answer."

"And there's just one answer for them. That I'm a murderer and a thief." Beynon looked at him strangely; a dully wondering look. "So you did anticipate it. You knew exactly what it would cost me. My career, disgrace, disbarment. Maybe a long stretch in prison myself. You knew all that, and yet-yet…"

"Now, you're exaggerating the situation," Doc cut in smoothly. "You'll have an uncomfortable time of it, but it won't be nearly as bad as that. You've got a lot of friends, a simon-pure reputation. It's an accepted fact that you've never taken a dishonest dime in your life. Under the…"

"Never a dime, McCoy?" Beynon laughed thickly. "You wouldn't say I'd taken about thirty of them?"

"I was saying," Doc said, "that under the circumstances you should come through this fine. About the worst you can be charged with is gross bad judgment."

He paused, frowning slightly as Beynon laughed again. Faintly, almost lost in the night breeze, he heard a metallic squeak. The opening-or perhaps the closing-of the car's trunk.

"Bad judgment," he repeated, his eyes holding the parole chief's. "Now, that's not so terrible, is it? It shouldn't be so hard to face considering that instead of fifteen thousand more, you'regetting-well-twentyseven and a half?"

"Twenty-seven and a half, eh?" Beynon nodded gravely. "Twenty-seven thousand, five hundred just for facing that. And how much do you think I should have McCoy, for facing myself?"

"Nothing," Doc said. "Not a damn penny."

He was tired, weary of coddling Beynon. He saw no reason to. The man wasn't going to do anything rash; he wasn't going to do anything period. He simply wanted to whine-make a big display of the conscience which had been conveniently asleep at the time he had sold out his office.

"You're a crook," Doc went on. "A particularly rotten kind. Now, stop fighting the fact.Just accept it, and make the most of it. Believe me, you won't find it so bad."

"I see." A skull's grin wreathed Beynon's haggard face. "You see us as two of a kind, is that it?"

"No," Doc said equably, "you're much worse than I am. You knew the kind of man I was-and I've never pretended to be any other kind. You knew, if you're not a complete idiot, that I play rough when I think it's necessary. You didn't have to give me a pardon; no one twisted your arm. You did it for money, and damned little of it at that. The kind of money that-yes?"

Beynon's grin had widened. He said softly, "Now, aren't you mistaken about that, McCoy? Wasn't there another factor involved, and did I have a choice?"

"I don't know what it would be."

"No," Beynon nodded slowly. "No, you really don't, do you? I was certain that you did, that it was a put-up job. I was convinced of it, despite some very wishful thinking to the contrary. But now-a small drink, Mr. McCoy? Or, no, I think the circumstances call for a large one."

With grave courtesy, he slopped whiskey into Doc's glass. Then he filled his own, pursing his lips sympathetically as Doc brushed the drink aside. "I don't blame you a bit, sir. Oh, believe me, I understand your feelings. You might say they were identical with my own at one time."

"I'm in a hurry," Doc snapped. "What are you talking about?"