"Who are you?"--in a tone just above a whisper, leaning forward, sensing in a measure an explanation of this situation. And because of this intuitive flash of comprehension, he did not give the other opportunity to answer his first question, but said quickly, lowly, "What are you doing here?" Benny looked at him, studying, a covered craftiness coming into his face to obliterate the anxiety, the rebelliousness that had been there. His semi-hysteria was gone, his cold, hard determination to carry his mission to its conclusion had reasserted itself but covered, this time, by cunning. He realized what had happened, knew that Lytton had expected to find another there, he saw that he was ready to kill on sight, and in the situation the miner read a way out for himself, a method of attaining his own ends. So he said, "I'm takin' a little rest; can't you see?"--ironical in his answer to Lytton's question, impatient when he put his own counter query. He wrenched at the bonds angrily and, partly from the exertion, partly from the rage that rose within him, his face colored darkly. Lytton stepped further into the room, approaching Lynch's chair, looking closely into his face, gun hand half lowered. "Who tied you up?" he asked in a whisper, for his mind was centered about a single idea; the probable presence of Bayard and his relation to this man who was some one's prisoner. Benny looked down at the floor and leaned over and again tugged at the knots for he dared not reveal his face as he growled, "A damn dirty cowpunch!" The other man said nothing; waited, obviously for more information. "His name's Bayard," Benny muttered. He rendered the impression that he regarded that specific information as of no consequence, but he heard the catch of a sound in Lytton's throat and saw him shift his footing nervously. "How long ago?" he asked. "Too damn long to sit here like this!"--in anger that was not simulated, for with every word that passed between them, Benny felt his reason slipping, felt that if this situation continued long enough he must rise with the chair bound fast to him and try to do harm to this other man. "Where'd he go?" Lytton bent low as he whispered excitedly and his gun hand hung loosely at his side. Benny shook his head. "I dunno," he said. "He went off some'res, but he won't be gone long, that's a good bet! He was up to somethin'--God knows what. Guess he thought I'd spoil it." He looked up and saw the glitter of Lytton's eyes. "Up to something is he?" Lytton laughed, dryly, repeating Lynch's words. "Up to something! He's always up to something. He's been up to something for weeks, the wife stealing whelp ... and now if I know what I'm talking about, he's up _against_ something!" "Wife stealer, is he?" Benny laughed as he put that question and was satisfied when he saw Ned's jaw muscles bulge. "That's his latest, is it?" Lytton looked at him pointedly. "You know him pretty well, too?" he asked.