Their opponents were scattered and powerless.
It would all end, as it had done in the past, in aimless talk and
possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty, McMurdo, and all
the bolder spirits.
It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge
night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when
Morris, the weaker brother of the order, came to see him. His
brow was creased with care, and his kindly face was drawn and
haggard.
"Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?"
"Sure."
"I can't forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you
kept it to yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you
about it."
"What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I agreed
with what you said."
"I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and
be safe. I've a secret here," he put his hand to his breast,
"and it is just burning the life out of me. I wish it had come
to any one of you but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder, for
sure. If I don't, it may bring the end of us all. God help me,
but I am near out of my wits over it!"
McMurdo looked at the man earnestly.
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