The picture that Trafford drew of the murder and the theft stirred Mrs. Parlin, already wrought upon by the interview, to a state of nervous excitement that was most distressing. Too late, the detective realised that in such a state she was scarcely a safe custodian for the secret he had given into her keeping. She walked the room, wringing her hands and asking herself: “Why didn’t I burn them; why didn’t I burn them? I might at least have saved Theodore! I am his murderer.” 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 them in the hope of saving his life. They’ve killed Theodore. Don’t let them kill any more folks. Burn them, burn them, when you get hold of them!” “But you want me to catch Mr. Wing’s murderer, don’t you? You want him sent to Thomaston?” “Yes; yes!” Her eyes blazed with the desire of revenge. “Don’t let him escape! But burn the papers!” He lingered still, though he felt that he was wasting precious time. He seemed to be in the one place of safety, and a strange dread, which he knew foreign to his nature and profession, assailed him. He had never experienced it before and it seemed a premonition of coming evil. As he turned finally to go, she said again: “Don’t move alone. You can’t do better than take Mr. McManus’s advice. The judge had every confidence in him, and so, I think, had Theodore. You’ll be safer if some one knows what you are doing. Tell him everything and keep somebody by you all the time. Catch Theodore’s murderer, and when you get him and the papers, burn the papers: don’t let them cause any more bloodshed.” “I shan’t move without Mr. McManus,” he assured her. “He is cool-headed and resourceful. I’ll catch Mr. Wing’s murderer and I’ll put an end to the mischief those papers can do.”