“Yes,” resumed the speaker, “we must make old Shane do it. Once we get him in the proper frame of mind he’ll testify just as we want him to. And we need some testimony to offset that of the widow and her girl. Otherwise we’ll never get the property without a long delay.”
“But how can we get Shane in the proper frame of mind to testify as we want him to?” asked another of the trio.
“Leave that to me,” answered the one who had been in the fast motor boat. And Cora started as she noted the difference in his tone now. It was hard and cruel, while, in speaking to her, his accents had been those of a cultured gentleman, used to polite society. There was a metallic ring to his voice now that boded no good to Denny Shane.
“Yes, I guess we’ll leave it to you, Bruce,” said a voice, “though maybe Kelly could put it over him with a bit of blarney. You know Shane is Irish.”
“Hush! No names, and not so loud!” cautioned the one who had been addressed as Bruce.
“Who’d be listening?” asked the other.
“You never can tell, Moran,” was the retort.
“There you go!” exclaimed Bruce, fretfully, and the girls knew it must have been the one called Kelly who spoke that time.
There was a movement on the other side of the bush, and Cora, with a sudden motion, crouched down, signalling the others to do the same. It was only just in time, too. Fortunately for the girls they were in a sort of depression, and by crouching down they got out of sight, as one of the men came forward to peer through the underbrush. He saw nothing, as was evidenced by his report a moment later.
“There’s not a soul here,” he said. “There’s been some picnic party around, but they’ve gone. It’s as deserted as a graveyard.”