"Wait a moment," said the old man. "You say your husband’s a drayman. Tell him to come and see me—my home’s the best place—this evening if possible. And tell him—and this applies as much to you"—his bushy brows came down over his eyes and his expression grew lowering—"not to mention one word of this. If you keep your mouths shut, your future’s made. If you blab"—he raised a warning finger and shook it fiercely in her face—"God help you." Mrs. Meagher looked terrified. She clutched Dannie and drew him against her skirts. "It’s not a word I’ll be after sayin’, your Honor," she faltered. "I’ll swear it before the priest." "That’s right. I’ll see the priest about it." He suddenly changed, straightened up, and was the genial old gentleman who could put the shyest witness at his ease. "The little chap doesn’t look strong. New York’s no place for him. He ought to run wild in the country for a bit." "Ah, don’t be after sayin’ it," she shook her head wistfully. "That’s what the doctor tolt me. But what can a poor scrubwoman do?" "Not as much, maybe, as a lawyer can. You leave that to me. I’ll see he goes and you’ll be along. All I ask in return is"—he put his finger on his lips—"just one word—silence." She tried to say something, but laughing and pooh-poohing her attempts at thanks, he walked her to the door. "There—there—no back-talk. Hustle along now, and don’t forget, I want to see Dan Meagher tonight. Ask the clerk in the waiting room for the address. Good-bye." He shook hands with her and patted Dannie on the shoulder. "A month on a farm and you won’t know this boy. Good-bye and good luck to you!" As the door shut on her his whole expression and manner changed. He turned back to the room, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes, under the drooping thatch of his hair, looking from one to the other of us. "Well, gentlemen?" he said. "_Murder!_" came from George on a rising breath. "Murder," repeated his father. "A fact that I’ve suspected since the inquest." CHAPTER VII MOLLY TELLS THE STORY _Murder!_ Will I ever forget that night when Babbitts told me, the two of us shut in our room! I can see his face now, thrust out toward me, all strained and staring, his voice almost a whisper. As for me—I guess I looked like the Village Idiot, with my mouth dropped open and my eyes bulged so you could cut ’em off with a shingle. The next day the same word went out to us that was given to Mrs. Meagher—_silence_. Not a whisper, not a breath! Neither the public, nor the press, nor the police must get an inkling. All there was to go upon was the story of a child, and until this could be confirmed by other facts, the outside world was to know nothing. _If_ corroborative evidence were found it would be the biggest sensation the Whitney office had ever had. Babbitts was promised the scoop, but if he gave away a thing before the time was ripe it would be the end of us as far as Whitney & Whitney went.