He stood for an instant at the window, mentally anathematizing Dale for bringing the girl to his rooms, and for keeping her there; then he dismissed the woman, who went down the stairs, opened the door that Maison had locked, and went outside.
He stood for an instant longer at the window; then he turned and looked down at Peggy, stretched out, still and white, on the bed.
Maison looked long at her, and decided it was not remarkable that Dale had become infatuated with Peggy, for the girl was handsome.
Maison had never bothered with women, and he yielded to a suspicion of sentiment as he looked down at Peggy.

But, as always, the sentiment was not spiritual.
Dale had intimated that the girl was his mistress.

Well, he was bound to acknowledge that Dale had good taste in such matters, anyway.
The expression of Maison's face was not good to see; there was a glow in his eyes that, had Peggy seen it, would have frightened her.
And if Maison had been less interested in Peggy, and with his thoughts of Dale, he would have heard the slight sound at the door; he would have seen Ben Nyland standing there in the deepening dusk, his eyes aflame with the wild and bitter passions of a man who had come to kill.
Maison did not see, nor did he hear until Ben leaped for him.

Then Maison heard him, felt his presence, and realized his danger.
He turned, intending to escape down the other stairway.

He was too late.
Ben caught him midway between the bed and the door that opened to the stairway, and his big hands went around the banker's neck, cutting short his scream of terror and the incoherent mutterings which followed it.
Peggy Nyland had been suffering mental torture for ages, it seemed to her.