THAT night, at the hour of ten, Peter Satchley also smoked and sat before his desk, waiting for the visit of Mr. Martin Cogblen and what it might bring forth. He hoped that it might be something unusually good, for he wanted to undertake a gigantic enterprise that would result in a huge profit. Afterward he meant to inform Lorenzo Brayton of what he had done.
Thought of Brayton brought a flush of anger to Satchley’s face. He had been endeavoring to get the man out of his mind for several days, promising to punish him later, but found that he could not. The will to take Brayton’s throat in his gripping hands was strong in Satchley. He was the sort of man who needs only a motive and an opportunity to become a cold-blooded murderer.
He heard distant chimes strike the hour of ten, and he smo
