its scope. That, Littell knew, was because the plan he had evolved had not quite succeeded. A little slip. One any man might make. And it had seemed a risk anyone would take, when the stakes were considered.
"He would simply stand there, blending with the trees."
Half a million dollars! That was the heritage Littell would have split if the murder of his ward, Elizabeth Moore, had gone undetected. And God knows it should have succeeded. Littell could still glow when he thought of the subtlety of the plan.
The sub-microscopic germs of psittacosis, a thing most people couldn't even pronounce, let alone understand. Dread virus of the parrot disease that could kill like a flaming sword, but subtly, undetectably. A virus obtained through Doctor Harley, eminent Government authority, whose daughter had secretly disgraced herself to such a degree that Harley could be blackmailed into anything through fear of her exposure. Death for Elizabeth Moore; half a million dollars almost in the hand.
And then they had been caught.
"Don't keep thinking it was my fault we were tripped up," he said urgently. "It was just bad luck——"
"It isn't because we were caught that I could cheerfully see you burned at the
19
