Rann was speaking, while Quade, with his bullish shoulders hunched forward and his fleshy red neck, rolling over the collar of his coat, leaned across the table in a tense and listening attitude.  With his eyes glued to the aperture, Aldous strained his ears to catch what Rann was saying.  He heard only the low and unintelligible monotone of his voice.  A mocking smile was accompanying Rann’s words.  To-night, as at all times, this hawk who preyed upon human lives was immaculate.  In all ways but one he was the antithesis of the beefy scoundrel who sat opposite him.  On the hand that toyed carelessly with the fob of his watch flashed a diamond; another sparkled in his cravat.  His dark hair was sleek and well brushed; his bristly little moustache was clipped in the latest fashion.  He was not large.  His hands, as he made a gesture toward Quade, were of womanish whiteness.  Casually, on the street or in a Pullman, Aldous would have taken him for a gentleman.  Now, as he stared through the narrow slit between the bottom of the curtain and the sill, he knew that he was looking upon one of the most dangerous men in all the West.  Quade was a villain.  Culver Rann, quiet and cool and suave, was a devil.  Behind his depravity worked the brain which Quade lacked, and a nerve which, in spite of that almost effeminate immaculateness, had been described to Aldous as colossal.

Suddenly Quade turned, and Aldous saw that he was flushed and excited.  He struck the desk a blow with his fist.  Culver Rann leaned back and smiled.  And John Aldous slipped away from the window.

His nerves were quivering; in the darkness he unbuttoned the pocket that held his automatic.  Through the window he had seen an open door behind Rann, and his blood thrilled with the idea that had come to him.  He was sure the two partners in crime were discussing himself and MacDonald—­and Joanne.  To hear what they were saying, to discover their plot, would be three quarters of the fight won, if it came to a fight.  The open door was an inspiration.

Swiftly and silently he went to the rear of the house.  He tried the door and found it unlocked.  Softly he opened it, swinging it inward an inch at a time, and scarcely breathing as he entered.  It was dark, and there was a second closed door ahead of him.  From beyond that he heard voices.  He closed the outer door so that he would not be betrayed by a current of air or a sound from out of the night.  Then, even more cautiously and slowly, he began to open the second door.

An inch at first, then two inches, three inches—­a foot—­he worked the door inward.  There was no light in this second room, and he lay close to the floor, head and shoulders thrust well in.  Through the third and open door he saw Quade and Culver Rann.  Rann was laughing softly as he lighted a fresh cigar.  His voice was quiet and good humoured, but filled with a banter which it was evident Quade was not appreciating.