CHAPTER IXMiss Peterson was seldom plagued by doubt or uncertainty. She had seen plenty of trouble and plenty of danger; but she had known almost always what she wanted to do, and meant to do. Now, however, she did not, and it upset her, so that she lay awake a good half hour.
I don’t know about don Carlos, she said to herself. I honestly don’t. I don’t know what his limits are. I don’t know what he has done, or what he’s likely to do. He certainly did not put all his cards on the table. He’d never do that. He’d always have an ace up his sleeve. But, to a certain extent, he did trust me.
Well, I don’t much like being trusted with illegal secrets. If I keep quiet about the possible bullet-hole, and about the dead man’s passport, I’m an accessory after the fact. And after what fact? The ma
