He lay, clammy with sweat, every sense strained and acute, listening. For, from continued contemplation of imaginary dangers he had worked himself into a frenzy which would have turned into a conviction of real danger at the slightest sound near him. He expected sound to come; he waited for it, his ears attuned, his senses alert. And at last sound came. It was a mere creak--such a sound as a foot might make on a stairway. And it seemed to have come from the stairs leading to Maison's rooms. He did not hear it again, though, and he might have fought off the new terror that was gripping him, if at that instant he had not remembered that when leaving the lower room he had forgotten to lock the rear door--the door through which Morley had entered earlier in the evening; the door through which Silverthorn had departed. He had not locked that door, and that noise on the stairs might have been made by some night prowler. Aroused to desperation by his fears he started to get out of bed with the intention of getting the revolver that lay in a drawer in the sideboard. His feet were on the floor as he sat on the edge of the bed preparatory to standing, when he saw the door at the head of the stairs slowly swing open and a figure of a man appear in the opening. The light in the room was faint--a mere luminous star-mist--hut Maison could see clearly the man's face. He stiffened, his hands gripping the bedclothing, as he muttered hoarsely: "Sanderson!" Sanderson stepped into the room and closed the door. The heavy six-shooter in his hand was at his hip, the long barrel horizontal, the big muzzle gaping forebodingly into Maison's face. There was a cold, mirthless grin on Sanderson's face, but it seemed to Maison that the grin was the wanton expression of murder lust. He knew, without Sanderson telling him, that if he moved, or made the slightest outcry, Sanderson would kill him. Therefore he made neither move nor sound, but sat there, rigid and gasping for breath, awaiting the other's pleasure. Sanderson came close to him, speaking in a vibrant whisper: "Anyone in the house with you? If you speak above a whisper I'll blow you apart!" "I'm alone!" gasped Maison. Sanderson laughed lowly. "You must have known I was comin'. Did you expect me? Well--" when Maison did not answer--"you left the rear door open. Obliged to you. "You know what I came for? No?" His voice was still low and vibrant. "I came to talk over what happened at Devil's Hole." Maison's eyes bulged with horror. "I see you know about it, all right. I'm glad of that. Seven men murdered; three thousand head of cattle gone. Mebbe they didn't all go into the quicksand--I don't know. What I do know is this: they've got to be paid for--men an' cattle. Understand? Cattle an' men." The cold emphasis he laid on the "and" made a shiver run over the banker. "Money will pay for cattle," went on Sanderson. "I'll collect a man for every man you killed at Devil's Hole."