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.
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