As he sealed this he paused, while he felt the hair on his neck rise and bristle and a chill race up his spine.  His heart fluttered, then pounded onward till the blood thumped audibly at his ear-drums and he found himself swaying in rhythm to its beat.  The muscles of his back cringed and rippled at the proximity of some hovering peril, and yet an irresistible feeling forbade him to turn.  A sound came from close behind his chair—­the drip, drip, drip of water.  It was not from the eaves, nor yet from a faulty shingle.  His back was to the kitchen door, through which he had come, and, although there were no mirrors before him, he felt a menacing presence as surely as though it had touched him.  His ears were tuned to the finest pin-pricks of sound, so that he heard the faint, sighing “squish” of a sodden shoe upon which a weight had shifted.  Still something chained him to his seat.  It was as though his soul laid a restraining hand upon his body, waiting for the instant.

He let his hand seek his hip carelessly, but remembered where his gun was.  Mechanically, he addressed the note in shaking characters, while behind him sounded the constant drip, drip, drip that he knew came from saturated garments.  For a long moment he sat, till he heard the stealthy click of a gun-lock muffled by finger pressure.  Then he set his face and slowly turned to find the Bronco Kid standing behind him as though risen from the sea, his light clothes wet and clinging, his feet centred in a spreading puddle.  The dim light showed the convulsive fury of his features above the levelled weapon, whose hammer was curled back like the head of a striking adder, his eyes gleaming with frenzy.  Glenister’s mouth was powder dry, but his mind was leaping riotously like dust before a gale, for he divined himself to be in the deadliest peril of his life.  When he spoke the calmness of his voice surprised himself.

“What’s the matter, Bronco?” The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated, “What do you want?”

“That’s a hell of a question,” the gambler said, hoarsely.  “I want you, of course, and I’ve got you.”

“Hold up!  I am unarmed.  This is your third try, and I want to know what’s back of it.”

“Damn the talk!” cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light shone on his features, which commenced to twitch.  He raised the revolver he had half lowered.  “There’s reason enough, and you know it.”

Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones.  “You can’t kill me,” he said.  “I am too good a man to murder.  You might shoot a crook, but you can’t kill a brave man when he’s unarmed.  You’re no assassin.”  He remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips, meeting the other’s look unflinchingly.  The Kid hesitated an instant, while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision.  Glenister cried out, exultantly: