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, Mc-
Murdo, and all the bolder spirits.

It was a Saturday evening in May. Satur-
day was always the lodge night, and McMurdo
was leaving his house to attend it when Borris,
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 burn-
ing the life out of me. I wish it had come to any
one of you but me. If I tell it, it will mean mur-
der, for sure. If I don't, it may bring the end

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