"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.