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Updated: June 26, 2025
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.
However, the French, mainly Maison's division, disputed every foot of ground, for the fires lit the place as if it were day. Polotsk was burned to the ground. The losses on both sides were considerable. Nevertheless our retreat was carried out in an orderly fashion.
A rumor came to the men, however, just before they started, which made several of them look at one another for there had been those who had seen Ben Nyland riding down the street toward Maison's bank in the dusk, his face set and grim and a wild light in his eyes. "Maison has been guzzled he's deader than a salt mackerel!" came the word, leaping from lip to lip. Sheriff Warde grinned.
For he had heard that day in Okar that Ben Nyland had taken a train eastward that morning, to return on the afternoon of the day following. And during the time Dale had been talking with Maison; and Silverthorn, and playing cards with them, he thought often of Peggy Nyland. Silverthorn and Morley did not remain long in Maison's private room in the bank building.
Maison had often dealt crookedly with his fellow-men, but never, until the incident of Devil's Hole, had he deliberately planned murder. Thus tonight Maison's conscience had more ghastly evidence to confront him with, and conscience is a pitiless retributive agent.
"Yes, that project will require a large sum. H'm! It is er do you purpose to try to handle the project yourself, Mr. Bransford?" "Me an' Mary Bransford. I'll hire an engineer." Maison's cheeks reddened a trifle. He seemed to lose interest slightly. "Don't you think it is rather too big a thing for one man to handle aided by a woman?" He smiled blandly at Sanderson.
So you have dragged your unfortunate Norman horse through Paris to Vincennes, from Vincennes to Saint Maur, from Saint Maur to Charenton, from Charenton opposite some island or other which struck your wife and mother-in-law as being prettier than all the landscapes through which you had driven them. "Let's go to Maison's!" somebody exclaims. So you go to Maison's, near Alfort.
"God, a man needs something like this to brace him up after such a night!" he declared. He took a second drink from the bottle, and a third. In the act of pouring a fourth he heard a sound at the back door, and with a gulp of terror he remembered that he had again forgotten to lock it. Sanderson undoubtedly was returning! Again Maison's body became clammy with a cold sweat.
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