“All right,” said Silverthorn, mollified.  “Have you set Morley on Barney Owen?”

“Owen was goin’ right strong a few minutes after this Bransford guy left him,” grinned Dale.

“All right,” said Silverthorn, “go ahead the way we planned it.  But don’t have our friend killed.”

When Sanderson entered the hotel the clerk was alone in the office pondering over the register.

Dusk had fallen, and the light in the office was rather dim.  Through the archway connecting the office with the saloon came a broad beam of light from a number of kerosene lamps.  From beyond the archway issued the buzz of voices and the clink of glasses; peering through the opening Sanderson could see that the barroom was crowded.

Sanderson mounted the stairs leading from the office.  When he had left Owen, the latter had told Sanderson that it was his intention to spend the time until the return of his friend in reading.

Owen, however, was not in the room.  Sanderson descended the stairs, walked to the archway that led into the saloon, and looked inside.  In a rear corner of the barroom he saw Owen, seated at a table with several other men.  Owen’s face was flushed; he was talking loudly and extravagantly.

Sanderson remembered what Owen had told him concerning his appetite for strong liquor, he remembered, too, that Owen was in possession of a secret which, if divulged, would deliver Mary Bransford into the hands of her enemies.

Sanderson’s blood rioted with rage and disgust.  He crossed the barroom and stood behind Owen.  The latter did not see him.  One of the men with Owen did see Sanderson, though, and he looked up impudently, and smilingly pushed a filled glass of amber-colored liquor toward Owen.

“You ain’t half drinkin’, Owen,” he said.

Sanderson reached over, took the glass, threw its contents on the floor and grasped Owen by the shoulder.  His gaze met the tempter’s, coldly.

“My friend ain’t drinkin’ no more tonight,” he declared.

The tempter sneered, his body stiffening.

“He ain’t, eh?” he grinned, insolently.  “I reckon you don’t know him; he likes whisky as a fish likes water.”

Several men in the vicinity guffawed loudly.

Owen was drunk.  His hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and his eyes were bleared and wide with an unreasoning, belligerent light as he got up, swaying unsteadily, and looked at Sanderson.

“Not drink any more?” he demanded loudly.  “Who says I can’t?  I’ve got lots of money, and there’s lots of booze here.  Who says I can’t drink any more?”

And now, for the first time, he seemed to realize that Sanderson stood before him.  But the knowledge appeared merely to increase his belligerence to an insane fury.  He broke from Sanderson’s restraining grasp and stood off, reeling, looking at Sanderson with the grin of a satyr.