Nevertheless, there was the sense of oppression and danger hanging over him. He was doubting himself--doubting himself, from the moment Matthewson had assured him that he would give a hundred thousand dollars for the papers. Suppose he should find them, would he have strength to put that offer from him? As he asked this question, he realised that the fear that weighed on him was rather the fear born of a sense of moral degradation than fear of bodily harm. He knew as absolutely as if the thing was done that, if once he was in possession of the papers, he would sell them to Matthewson; and while he knew it and hated himself for being capable of doing it, he went steadily on the course which could have no other ending. CHAPTER XVIII The Man is Found McManus was unmarried and lived at the Millbank Hotel, where he indulged in the extravagance of two rooms, a sitting room and a bedroom. Trafford saw him at supper and arranged for an evening interview. “I’ll come to your room,” he said. “I’ve got nothing but a six by nine closet on the highest floor.” Supper over, he went for a short walk, to pass the time until the hour of appointment. He walked out on the river road where Charles Hunter’s great house stood, and found himself running over items of expense in maintaining such an establishment, all directed to the question whether a man on the income derivable from one hundred thousand dollars could afford a home like it. Disgusted with a train of thought he could not control, he hastened on, until at the top of Parlin Hill he saw the Parlin homestead and quite unexpectedly began asking himself if Mrs. Parlin was not likely to sell it and move into a smaller house. Whipped with the lash of his now ungovernable thoughts, he returned to the hotel and was confronted by Frank Hunter, whom he would dearly have liked to arrest and bind over to keep the peace. He was in what he called a “blue funk,” and did not regain his self-control until he found himself in McManus’s room, where a sense of security seemed to seize him. “I’ll put this window on to the porch down and draw the shades,” he said, suiting the action to the word. “I’ve got some things to say that mustn’t be overheard.” They were at the table with cigars lighted, before McManus responded with reference to the affair in hand: “Have you made any progress?” “I’ve got the thing down to a dot,” he answered; “with the one exception--you’ll say important--of the man. I can tell you how that murder was committed, and when I have, I think you’ll agree with my prediction of a fortnight ago as to the characteristics of the man who committed it. What I want of you is that when the thing is told, you’ll help me put my hands on the man.” “I’ll do my best,” replied McManus; “but don’t forget you are giving me the point on which you confess yourself at a loss.” Trafford laughed. “Isn’t that where we all want help?” “Yes; but not always where we get it.”