It was late when Trafford had quieted her so that he dared trust her even with Mary Mullin. Even this he did not do, without first giving her a stern warning as to the necessity of self-restraint.
"We're on the last stretch now," he said. "What's done must be done quickly and silently. These men haven't committed murder yet, but they wouldn't hesitate to, if they were once convinced that safety lay in that direction. In forty-eight hours they'll see that it's safer for this murder to remain a mystery, and then it'll be dangerous to move—it may mean death. Can you keep still on this subject two days?"
"I kept still for eight years while I saw my husband crushed," she said reproachfully.
As he was turning away, oppressed with the thought that he was pitted against men who would hesitate at nothing and who, as soon as a conference was had, must see that their interests lay in thwarting his efforts, she caught him by the coat and drew him towards her.
"There's been blood enough shed," she said. "These papers killed my husband, though I stole
