“That’ll come in time. I’ve not wanted to take too many into my confidence, and there’s no danger of their running away. Of course, if there’d been any possibility that this visitor was the murderer, ’twould be different, but as you’ll see, there isn’t.”
“But he may have instigated the murder, without actually firing the shot,” said McManus. “You must pardon me, Mr. Trafford; but I can’t help feeling you’ve shown yourself somewhat derelict in this important matter.”
“I hope I’ll be able to exonerate myself before I finish,” said Trafford. “At any rate, let me go on. The matters these men had to discuss were of such interest that the visitor came near missing the midnight train, which might have subjected me to the necessity of having him arrested, since he would then have been in town when the murder occurred. As it was, by hurrying through the alley between the post-office and Neil’s store, they got the train, the stranger coming from behind the potato warehouse, as has been testified. His companion remained there, or he might have been recognised by Oldbeg.”
Trafford seemed disposed to muse over the possible result of such an event and as well over another matter to which he referred a moment later:
“It would be a curious thing to know just what was said behind the storehouse, where they had their last words. It might throw a flood of light on things.”
“Yes,” answered McManus, showing a feverish desire for the continuance of the narrative; “but you might as well try to guess where yesterday’s winds have blown to. You seem to have facts enough, without speculating on conversations.”
“I suppose that’s true,” returned Trafford; “yet that last talk has a fascination for me. Who knows that it wasn’t just that that sealed Wing’s fate? You say this man may have instigated the murder. If so, may not that have been the moment of instigation?”
“Scarcely possible,” returned McManus, as it were drawn against his will into the discussion. “If he did anything so important, he wouldn’t leave it for the last word and last moment.”
“There I don’t agree with you,” Trafford retorted, showing a disposition to argue, which caused McManus a nervous irritation he could not conceal. “From my experience, that’s just what he would do. He’d hesitate to take the plunge; he’d wait to shape a phrase and then, at the last moment, when it had to be done, he’d throw it off in any form it presented itself. Actually, I’d give more to know what was said in that two minutes, before the stranger jumped for the train, than for all the talk of the whole evening.”
“Well; have your own way,” said McManus brusquely; “but you can’t know. Let it rest there, and let’s go on to what happened next—if you know.”