Wing fell in a heap on the step and threshold—his death was instantaneous."
McManus had listened to these last words as if fascinated by the terrible details so briefly stated. When Trafford paused on the last word, he seemed to catch his breath with the movement of one who in the last minute had forgotten everything but the picture before him.
"If your tale is true," he said, breathing deeply, "your description of the man is the man himself—a man of quick movements, strong purpose, assured position, and absolute control of nerves. The man must have been iron—at least while he was doing the job."
"And he needed to be adamant to complete it. There was nothing to him in Wing's death, as a mere death. It saved him from nothing, though it might save others. It was positive, not negative, gain he was after. Perhaps, on the whole, he would rather Wing had lived. He felt it simply a necessity, and an unpleasant one at that, that he should die. But he was after something, and Wing's death was only the preliminary to securing it. Having waited to make certain the shot had aroused no one,
