He recognized it instantly as Dale's, and in the instant, his face pale, his eyes blazing with passion, he was on the porch, peering through one of the darkened windows.
Inside he saw Dale and Mary Bransford.

They were in the sitting-room.
Dale was sitting in a big chair, smoking a cigar, one arm carelessly thrown over the back of the chair, his legs crossed, his attitude that of the master.
Standing perhaps a dozen feet from him was Mary Bransford.
The girl's eyes were wide with fright and astonishment, disbelief, incredulity--and several other emotions that Sanderson could not analyze.

He did not try.

One look at her sufficed to tell him that Dale was baiting her, tantalizing her, mocking her, and Sanderson's hatred for the man grew in intensity until it threatened to overwhelm him.
There was in his mind an impulse to burst into the house and kill Dale where he sat.

It was the primitive lust to destroy an unprincipled rival that had seized Sanderson, for he saw in Dale's eyes the bold passion of the woman hunter.
However, Sanderson conquered the impulse.