"Murder is a little out of my line——"
"You're not going to fail me——?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "You can't," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now. I can't see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one. You promised, Nichols. You promised to go."
"Yes. And I'll keep my word—but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off."
"Yes—yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a good fellow—and honest. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protect yourself, if he tries to start anything."
"Have you any reason to believe that he might?"
"No. I can't say I have."
"All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not responsible if anything goes wrong."
"That's understood."
Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico. Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he would be returning to the house later.
"The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse.