He chuckled.  He was thinking of the Bransfords now—­and Sanderson.  He had put a wolf on Sanderson’s trail—­he and Silverthorn; and Sanderson would soon cease to bother him.

He chuckled again; and he sat in the chair at the desk, hugely enjoying himself until the cigar was finished.  Then he got up, locked the doors, and went upstairs.

Peggy Nyland had not recovered consciousness.  The woman who was caring for the girl sat near an open window that looked out upon Okar’s one street when Maison entered the room.

Maison asked her if there was any change; was told there was not.  He stood for an instant at the window, mentally anathematizing Dale for bringing the girl to his rooms, and for keeping her there; then he dismissed the woman, who went down the stairs, opened the door that Maison had locked, and went outside.

He stood for an instant longer at the window; then he turned and looked down at Peggy, stretched out, still and white, on the bed.

Maison looked long at her, and decided it was not remarkable that Dale had become infatuated with Peggy, for the girl was handsome.

Maison had never bothered with women, and he yielded to a suspicion of sentiment as he looked down at Peggy.  But, as always, the sentiment was not spiritual.

Dale had intimated that the girl was his mistress.  Well, he was bound to acknowledge that Dale had good taste in such matters, anyway.

The expression of Maison’s face was not good to see; there was a glow in his eyes that, had Peggy seen it, would have frightened her.

And if Maison had been less interested in Peggy, and with his thoughts of Dale, he would have heard the slight sound at the door; he would have seen Ben Nyland standing there in the deepening dusk, his eyes aflame with the wild and bitter passions of a man who had come to kill.

Maison did not see, nor did he hear until Ben leaped for him.  Then Maison heard him, felt his presence, and realized his danger.

He turned, intending to escape down the other stairway.  He was too late.

Ben caught him midway between the bed and the door that opened to the stairway, and his big hands went around the banker’s neck, cutting short his scream of terror and the incoherent mutterings which followed it.

Peggy Nyland had been suffering mental torture for ages, it seemed to her.  Weird and grotesque thoughts had followed one another in rapid succession through her brain.  The thing had grown so vivid—­the horrible imaginings had seemed so real, that many times she had been on the verge of screaming.  Each time she tried to scream, however, she found that her jaws were tightly set, her teeth clenched, and she could get no sound through them.

Lately, though—­it seemed that it had been for hours—­she had felt a gradual lessening of the tension.  Within the last few hours she had heard voices near her; had divined that persons were near her.  But she had not been certain.  That is, until within a few minutes.