hideous thing that played with murder, rather than let itself be discovered?
As Trafford asked himself the question, he glanced uneasily at his windows. It was here, in this very town, within a stone's throw of the very place where he sat, that murder stalked—murder that had once sought him as a victim and then had destroyed its own instrument, not trusting the man it had employed. It seemed like a lowering menace, ready to fall without warning, and almost for the first time since he had taken up this profession, he was conscious of the sense of personal fear. This merciless, unseen something, impressed him as standing just beyond the line of sight, watching with unseen eyes, to strike at him again. If it could be uncovered, what would it prove itself, to justify so desperate a chance? If it could not be uncovered, where was safety for himself or for any one who stood as a menace to its purposes?
That the men who had committed these two murders and had tried a third—for he did not for one instant separate them—would stop at no chance, was beyond dispute or question. They had watched and
