Undoubtedly Maison, Silverthorn, and Dale were confederates in this matter, and Dale’s insistence that he sign the register claim was a mere subterfuge to obtain a copy of the Bransford signature in order to make trouble for him.  It occurred to Sanderson that the men suspected him, and he grinned coldly as he raised his eyes to Maison.

Maison was watching him, keenly; and his flush when he saw Sanderson looking at him convinced the latter that his suspicions were not without foundation.

If Sanderson could have known that he had hardly left the hotel when a man whispered to Maison; and that Maison had said to the man:  “All right, I’ll go down and wait for him,” Sanderson could not have more accurately interpreted Maison’s flush.

Sanderson’s grin grew grim.  “It’s a frame-up,” he told himself.  His grin grew saturnine.  He got up, folded the withdrawal blank and stuck it in a pocket.

“I’m leavin’ the money here tonight,” he said.  “For a man that ain’t been to town in a long while, there’d be too many temptations yankin’ at me.”

He went out, leaving Maison to watch him from a window, a flush of chagrin on his face.

Sanderson walked down the street toward the hotel.  He would have Owen sign the withdrawal blank before morning—­that would defeat Maison’s plan to gain evidence of the impersonation.

Sanderson had not been gone from Silverthorn’s office more than five minutes when Dale entered.  Silverthorn was sitting at his desk scowling, his face pale with big, heavy lines in it showing the strain of his interview with Sanderson.

“Bransford’s been here!” guessed Dale, looking at Silverthorn.

Silverthorn nodded, cursing.

“You don’t need to feel conceited,” laughed Dale; “he’s been to see me, too.”

Dale related what had happened on the street some time before, and Silverthorn’s scowl deepened.

“There are times when you don’t seem to be able to think at all, Dale!” he declared.  “After this, when you decide to do a thing, see me first—­or Maison.  The last thing we want to happen right now is to have this fake Bransford killed.”

“Why?”

“I’ve just got word from Las Vegas that he’s submitted his affidavit establishing his identity, and that the court has accepted it.  That settles the matter until—­or unless—­we can get evidence to the contrary.  And if he dies without us getting that evidence we are through.”

“Him dyin’ would make things sure for us,” contended Dale.  “Mary Bransford wouldn’t have any claim—­us havin’ proof that she ain’t a Bransford.”

“This fellow is no fool,” declared Silverthorn.  “Suppose he’s wise to us, which he might be, and he has willed the property to the girl.  Where would we be, not being able to prove that he isn’t Will Bransford?”

Dale meditated.  Then he made a wry face.  “That’s right,” he finally admitted.  He made a gesture of futility.  “I reckon I’ll let you do the plannin’ after this.”