 CHAPTER XVIII. The general effect on Stillwater of Mr. Shackford's death and the peculiar circumstances attending the tragedy have been set forth in the earlier chapters of this narrative. The influence which that event exerted upon several persons then but imperfectly known to the reader is now to occupy us. On the conclusion of the strike Richard had returned in the highest spirits to his own rooms in Lime Street, but the quiet week that followed found him singularly depressed. His nerves had been strung to their utmost tension during those thirteen days of suspense. He had assumed no light responsibility in the matter of closing the yard, and there had been moments when the task of sustaining Mr. Slocum had appeared almost hopeless. Now that the strain was removed, a reaction set in, and Richard found himself unnerved by the fleeing shadow of the trouble which had not caused him to flinch so long as it faced him. On the morning and at the moment when Mary Hennessey was pushing open the scullery door of the house in Welch's Court and was about to come upon the body of the forlorn old man lying there in his nitress, Richard sat eating his breakfast in a silent and preoccupied mood. He had retired very late the previous night, and his lackluster eyes showed the effect of insufficient sleep. His single fellow-border, Mr. Pinkham, had not returned from his customary early walk, and only Richard and Mrs. Spooner, the landlady, were at table. The former was in the act of lifting the coffee-cup to his lips when the schoolmaster burst excitedly into the room. "'Oh, Mr. Shackford is dead,' he exclaimed, dropping into a chair near the door. There's a report down in the village that he had been murdered. I don't know if it's true. God, forgive my abruptness. I didn't think.' And Mr. Pinkham turned an apologetic face towards Richard, who sat there deathly pale, holding the cup rigidly, within an inch or two of his lip, and staring blankly into space like a statue. "'I ought to have reflected,' murmured the schoolmaster, covered with confusion at his maledroitness. It was very reprehensible and craggy to make such an announcement to me so suddenly on a street corner. I—I was quite upset by it.' Richard pushed back his chair without replying, and passed into the hall, where he encountered a messenger from Mr. Slocum, confirming Mr. Pinkham's intelligence, but supplementing it with the rumor that Lemuel Shackford had committed suicide. Richard caught up his hat from a table and hurried to Welch's court. Before reaching the house, he had somewhat recovered his outward composure, but he was still pale and internally much agitated, for he had received a great shock, as lawyer Perkins afterwards observed to Mr. Ward in the reading-room of the tavern. Both these gentlemen were present when Richard arrived, as were also several of the immediate neighbors and two constables. The latter were guarding the door against the crowd, which had already begun to collect in the front yard. A knot of carpenters, with their toolboxes on their shoulders, had halted at the garden gate on their way to Bishop's new stables, and were glancing curiously at the unpainted façade of the house, which seemed to have taken on a remote, bewildered expression, as if it had an inarticulate sense of the horror within. The men ceased their whispered conversation as Richard approached, and respectfully moved aside to let him pass. Nothing had been changed in the cheerless room on the ground floor, with its veneered mahogany furniture, and its yellowish leprous wallpaper, peeling off at the seams here and there. A cane-seeded chair, overturned near the table, had been left untouched, and the body was still lying in the position in which the Hennessy girl had discovered it. A strange chill, something unlike any atmospheric sharpness, a chill that seemed to exhale from the thin, pinched nostrils, permeated the apartment. The Orioles were singing madly outside, their vermelium bosoms glowing like live coals, against the tender green of the foliage, and appearing to break into flame as they took sudden flights hither and thither. But within, all was still. On entering the chamber, Richard was smitten by the silence, that silence which shrouds the dead, and is like no other. Lemuel Shackford had not been kind or cousinly, he had blighted Richard's childhood with harshness and neglect, and had lately heaped cruel insult upon him, but as he stood there alone, and gazed for a moment at the firmly shut lips upon which the mysterious white dust of death had already settled, the lips that were never to utter any more bitter things, the tears gathered in Richard's eyes, and ran slowly down his cheeks. After all said and done, Lemuel Shackford was his kinsman, and blood is thicker than water. Coroner Whitten shortly appeared on the scene, accompanied by a number of persons, a jury was impaneled, and then began that inquest which resulted in shedding so very little light on the catastrophe. The investigation completed, there were endless details to attend to, papers to be hurriedly examined and sealed, and arrangements made for the funeral on the succeeding day. These matters occupied Richard until late in the afternoon when he retired to his lodgings, looking in on Margaret for a few minutes on his way home. This is too dreadful, said Margaret, clinging to his hand, with fingers nearly as icy as his own. It is unspeakably sad, answered Richard, the saddest thing I ever knew. Who? Who could have been so cruel? Richard shook his head. No one knows. The funeral took place on Thursday, and on Friday morning, as has been stated, Mr. Tagget arrived in Stillwater, and installed himself in Welch's court to the wonder of many in the village, who would not have slept a night in that house, with only a servant in the North Gable, for half the universe. Mr. Tagget was a person who did not allow himself to be swayed by his imagination. Here then he began his probing of a case which, on the surface, promised to be a very simple one. The man who had been seen driving rapidly along the turnpike, sometime near daybreak on Wednesday, was presumably the man who could tell him all about it. But it did not prove so. Neither Thomas Blufton nor William Durgin, nor any of the tramps subsequently obliged to drop into autobiography, could be connected with the affair. These first failures served to stimulate Mr. Tagget. It required a complex case to stir his ingenuity and sujocity. That the present was not a complex case he was still convinced, after four days feudal labour upon it. Mr. Shackford had been killed, either with malice, pre-pence, or on the spur of the moment, for his money. The killing had likely enough not been premeditated. The old man had probably opposed the robbery. Now, among the exceptionally rough population of the town, there were possibly fifty men who would not have hesitated to strike down Mr. Shackford if he had caught them, flagrante, delicto, and resisted them, or attempted to call for succor. That the crime was committed by someone in Stillwater or in the neighborhood Mr. Tagget had never doubted since the day of his arrival, the clumsy manner in which the staple had been wrenched from the scullery door showed the absence of a professional hand. Then the fact that the deceased was in the habit of keeping money in his bedchamber was a fact well known in the village and not likely to be known outside of it, though of course it might have been. It was clearly necessary for Mr. Tagget to carry his investigation into the workshops and among the haunts of the class, which was indubitably to furnish him with the individual he wanted. Above all, it was necessary that the investigation should be secret. An obstacle obtruded itself here. Everybody in Stillwater knew everybody, and a stranger appearing on the streets or dropping frequently into the tavern would not escape comment. The man with the greatest facility for making the requisite searches would of course be some workman, but a workman was the very agent not to be employed under the circumstances, how many times and by what strange fatality had a guilty party been selected to shadow his own movements or those of an accomplice. No, Mr. Tagget must rely only on himself and his plan forthwith matured. Its execution, however, was delayed several days, the cooperation of Mr. Slocum and Mr. Richard Shackford being indispensable. At this stage Richard went to New York, where his cousin had made extensive investments in real estate. For a careful man the late Mr. Shackford had allowed his affairs there to become strangely tangled. The business would detain Richard a fortnight. Three days after his departure Mr. Tagget himself left Stillwater, having apparently given up the case, a proceeding which was severely criticized, not only in the columns of the Stillwater Gazette, but by the town's folks at large, who immediately relapsed into a state of apprehension approximating that of the morning when the crime was discovered. Mr. Pinkham, who was taking tea that evening at the Dana's, threw the family into a panic by asserting his belief that this was merely the first of a series of artistic assassinations in the manner of those memorable murders recorded by De Quincey. Mr. Pinkham may have said this to impress the four Dana girls with the variety of his reading, but the recollection of De Quincey's harrowing paper had the effect of so unhinging the young schoolmaster that when he found himself an hour or two afterwards in the lonely, unlighted street he flitted home like a belated ghost and was ready to drop at every tree-box. The next forenoon a new hand was taken on at Slocum's Yard. The new hand, who had come on foot from South Millville, at which town he had been set down by the seven o'clock express that morning, was placed in the apprentice department. There were five or six apprentices now. Though all this was part of an understood arrangement, Mr. Slocum nearly doubted the fidelity of his own eyes when Mr. Taggett, a smooth-faced young fellow of one in twenty, if so old, with all the traits of an ordinary workman, down to the neglected fingernails, stepped up to the desk to have the name of Blake entered on the payroll. Either by chance or by design, Mr. Taggett had appeared but seldom on the streets of Stillwater. The few persons who had anything like familiar intercourse with him, in his professional capacity, were precisely the persons with whom his present movements were not likely to bring him into juxtaposition, and he ran slight risk of recognition by others. With his hair closely cropped and the overhanging brown mustache removed, the man was not so much disguised as transformed. I shouldn't have known him, muttered Mr. Slocum, as he watched Mr. Taggett passing from the office with his hat in his hand. During the ensuing ten or twelve days, Mr. Slocum never wholly succeeded in extricating himself from the foggy uncertainty generated by that one brief interview. From the moment Mr. Taggett was assigned a bench under the sheds, Mr. Slocum so little or nothing of him. Mr. Taggett took lodging in a room in one of the most crowded of the low boarding houses, a room accommodating two beds besides his own. The first occupied by a brother Neophyte in marble cutting, and the second by a morose middle-aged man with one eyebrow a trifle higher than the other, as if it had been wrenched out of line by the strain of habitual intoxication. This man's name was Wooliston, and he worked at Dana's. Mr. Taggett's initial move was to make himself popular in the marble yard, and especially at the tavern, where he spent money freely, though not so freely as to excite any remark, except that the lad was running through pretty much all of his small pay, a recklessness which was terribly condoned in Snelling's bar room. He formed multifarious friendships, and had so many sensible views on the labor problem, advocating the general extinguishment of capitalists, and so on, that his admittance to the Marble Workers Association resolved itself into merely a question of time. The old prejudice against apprentices was already wearing off. The quiet, evasive man of few words was now a loquacious talker, holding his own with the hardest hitters, and very skillful in giving offence to no one. Whoever picks up Blake for a fool, Dexter remarked one night, will put him down again. Not a shadow of suspicion followed Mr. Taggett in his various comings and goings. He seemed merely a good-natured, intelligent devil. Perhaps a little less devilish and a trifle more intelligent than the rest, but not otherwise different. Dennevin, Peters, Dexter, Wilson, and others in and out of the slogan click were Blake's sworn friends. In brief, Mr. Taggett had the amplest opportunities to prosecute his studies. Only for a pained look, which sometimes laterally shot into his eyes as he worked at the bench, or as he walked alone in the street, one would have imagined that he was thoroughly enjoying the half-vagabond existence. The supposition would have been erroneous, for in the progress of those 14 days' apprenticeship Mr. Taggett had received a wound in the most sensitive part of his nature. He had been forced to give up what no man ever relinquishes without a wrench, his own idea. With the exception of an accident in Dana's mill, by which Turini's hand had been so badly mangled that amputation was deemed necessary, the two weeks had been eventless outside of Mr. Taggett's personal experience. What that experience was will transpire in its proper place. Margaret was getting daily notes from Richard, and Mr. Slocum, overburdened with the secret of Mr. Taggett's presence in the yard, a secret confined exclusively to Mr. Slocum, Richard, and Justice Beemis, was restlessly awaiting developments. The developments came that afternoon when Mr. Taggett walked into the office and startled Mr. Slocum sitting at the desk, the two words which Mr. Taggett then gravely and coldly whispered in Mr. Slocum's ear were Richard Shackford. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Stillwater Tragedy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldridge. Chapter 19 Mr. Slocum, who had partly risen from the chair, sank back into his seat. Good God! he said, turning very pale. Are you mad? Mr. Taggett realized the cruel shock which the pronouncing of that name must have caused Mr. Slocum. Mr. Taggett had meditated his line of action, and had decided that the most merciful course was brusquely to charge young Shackford with the crime, and allow Mr. Slocum to sustain himself for a while with the indignant disbelief which would be natural to him, situated as he was. He would then in a manner be prepared for the revelations which, if suddenly presented, would crush him. If Mr. Taggett was without imagination, as he claimed, he was not without a certain feminine quickness of sympathy, often found in persons engaged in professions, calculated to blunt the finer sensibilities. In his intercourse with Mr. Slocum at the Shackford House, Mr. Taggett had been won by the singular gentleness and simplicity of the man, and was touched by his misfortune. After his exclamation, Mr. Slocum did not speak for a moment or two, but with his elbows resting on the edge of the desk, sat motionless, like a person stunned. Then he slowly lifted his face, to which the colour had returned, and making a movement with his right hand, as if he were sweeping away cobwebs in front of him, rose from the chair. You are simply mad, he said, looking Mr. Taggett squarely and calmly in the eyes. Are you aware of Mr. Richard Sackford's character and his position here? Precisely. Do you know that he is to marry my daughter? I am very sorry for you, sir. You may spare me that. It is quite unnecessary. You have fallen into some horrible delusion. I hope you will be able to explain it. I am prepared to do so, sir. Are you serious? Very serious, Mr. Slocum. You'll actually imagine that Richard Sackford. Basha! It is simply impossible. I am too young a man to wish even to seem wiser than you, but my experience has taught me that nothing is impossible. I begin to believe so myself. I suppose you have grounds or something you consider grounds. For your monstrous suspicion, what are they? I demand to be fully informed of what you have been doing in the yard, before you bring disgrace upon me and my family, by inconsiderately acting on some wild theory which perhaps ten words can refute. I should be in the highest degree criminal, Mr. Slocum, if I were to make so fearful an accusation against any man, unless I had the most incontestable evidence in my hands. Mr. Tagget spoke with such cold-blooded conviction that a chill crept over Mr. Slocum, in spite of him. What is the nature of this evidence? Up to the present stage, purely circumstantial. I can imagine that, said Mr. Slocum, with a slight smile. But so conclusive as to require no collateral evidence, the testimony of an eyewitness of the crime could scarcely add to my knowledge of what occurred that Tuesday night in Lemuel Shackford's house. Indeed, is it all so clear? But, of course, a few eyewitnesses will turn up eventually, said Mr. Slocum, whose whiteness about the lips discounted the assurance of his sarcasm. That is not improbable, returned Mr. Tagget. And, meanwhile, what are the facts? They are not easily stated. I have kept a record of my work day by day, since the morning I entered the yard. The memoranda are necessarily confused, the important and the unimportant being jumbled together. But the record as it stands will answer your question more fully than I could, even if I had the time, which I have not, to go over the case with you. I can leave these notes in your hands, if you desire it, when I return from New York. You are going to New York? exclaimed Mr. Slocum, with a start. When? This evening. If you lay a finger on Richard Shackford, you will make the mistake of your life, Mr. Tagget. I have other business there. Mr. Shackford will be in Stillwater tomorrow night. He engaged a stateroom on the Fall River boat this morning. How can you know that? Since last Tuesday none of his movements have been unknown to me. Do you mean to say you have set your miserable spies upon him? cried Mr. Slocum. I should not state the fact in just those words, Mr. Tagget answered. The fact remains. Pardon me, said Mr. Slocum. I am not quite myself. Can you wonder at it? I do not wonder. Give me those papers you speak of, Mr. Tagget. I would like to look through them. I see that you are a very obstinate person. When you have got a notion into your head, perhaps I can help you out of your error before it is irreparable. Then, after hesitating a second, Mr. Slocum added, I may speak of this to my daughter. Indeed, I should scarcely keep it from her. Perhaps it is better she should be informed. And Mr. Shackford, when he returns tomorrow? If he broaches the subject of his cousin's death, I advise you to avoid it. Why should I? It might save you or Mr. Slocum some awkwardness, but you must use your own discretion. As the matter stands, it makes no difference whether Mr. Shackford knows his position today or tomorrow. It is too late for him to avail himself of the knowledge. Otherwise, of course, I should not have given myself away in this fashion. Very well, said Mr. Slocum, within an impatient movement of his shoulders. Neither I nor my daughter will open our lips on this topic. In a meanwhile, you are to take no further steps without advising me. That is understood? That is perfectly understood, returned Mr. Taggett, drawing a narrow red notebook from the inner pocket of his workman's blouse and producing, at the same time, a small nickel-plated door key. This is the key of Mr. Shackford's private workshop in the extension. I have not been able to replace it on the mantle shelf of his sitting-room in Lime Street. Will you have the kindness to see that it is done at once? A moment later, Mr. Slocum stood alone in the office, with Mr. Taggett's diary in his hand. It was one of those costly little volumes, guilt-edged and bound in fragrant crushed Levant, Morocco, with which city officials are annually supplied by a community of grateful taxpayers. The dark crimson of the flexible covers, as soft and slippery to the touch as a snakeskin, was perhaps the fitting symbol of the darker story that lay coiled within. With a gesture of repulsion, as if some fancy had flitted through his mind, Mr. Slocum tossed the notebook on the desk in front of him, and stood a few minutes, moodily watching the reflets of the crinkled leather as the afternoon sunshine struck across it. Beneath his amazement and indignation, he had been chilled to the bone by Mr. Taggett's brutal confidence. It was enough to chill one, surely, and in spite of himself, Mr. Slocum began to feel a certain indefinable dread of that little crimson-bound book. Whatever it contained, the reading of those pages was to be a repellent task to him. It was a task to which he could not bring himself at the moment. Tonight, in the privacy of his own chamber, he would sift Mr. Taggett's balehole fancies. Thus temporizing, Mr. Slocum dropped the volume into his pocket, locked the office door behind him, and wandered down to Dundin's drugstore to kill the intervening hour before supper time. Dundin's was the aristocratic lounging place of the village, the place where the only genuine Havana cigars and still water were to be had, and where the favoured few, the initiated, could get a dash of Hawkeimer or cognac with their soda water. At supper that evening Mr. Slocum addressed scarcely a word to Margaret, and Margaret was also silent. The days were dragging heavily with her. She was missing Richard. Her own daring travels had never extended beyond Boston or Providence, and New York, with Richard in it, seemed jurorily far away. Mr. Slocum withdrew to his chamber shortly after nine o'clock, and lighting the pair of candles on the dressing table began his examination of Mr. Taggett's memoranda. At midnight the watchmen on his lonely bead saw those two candles still burning. End of chapter 19 Mr. Taggett's diary was precisely a diary, disjoined, full of curt, obscure phrases and irrelevant reflections, for which reason it will not be reproduced here. Though Mr. Slocum pondered every syllable, and now and then turned back painfully to reconsider some doubtful passage, it is not presumed that the reader will care to do so. An abstract of the journal, with occasional quotation, where the writer's words seem to demand it, will be sufficient for the narrative. In the opening pages Mr. Taggett described his novel surroundings with a minuteness which contrasted oddly with the brief hurried entries further on. He found himself, as he had anticipated, in a society composed of some of the most heterogeneous elements. Stillwater, viewed from a certain point, was a sort of microcosm, a little international ragfare to which nearly every country on earth had contributed one of its shabby human products. I am moving, wrote Mr. Taggett, in an atmosphere in which any crime is possible I give myself seven days at the outside to light upon the traces of Shackford's murder. I feel him in the air. The writer's theory was that the man would betray his identity in one of two ways, either by talking unguardedly or by indulging in expenditures not warranted by his means in position. If several persons had been concerned in the crime, nothing was more likely than a disagreement over the spoil and consequent treachery on the part of one of them. Or again some of the Confederates might become alarmed and attempt to save themselves by giving away their comrades. Mr. Taggett, however, leaned to the belief that the assassin had had no accomplices. The sum taken from Mr. Shackford's safe was a comparatively large one, five hundred dollars in gold, and nearly doubled that amount in banknotes. Neither the gold nor the paper bore any known mark by which it could be recognized. The burglar had doubtless assured himself of this and would not hesitate to disperse the money. That was even a safer course, judiciously worked, than to secret it. The point was, would he have sufficient self-control to get rid of it by degrees? The chances, Mr. Taggett argued, were ten to one, he would not. A few pages further on, Mr. Taggett compliments the unknown on the adroit manner in which he is conducting himself. He has neither let slip a suspicious word, nor made an incautious display of his booty. Snelling's bar was doing an unusually light business. No one appeared to have any money. Many of the men had run deeply into debt during the late strike, and were now drinking moderately. In the paragraph which closes the week's record, Mr. Taggett's chagrin is evident. He confesses that he is at fault. My invisible friend does not materialize so successfully as I expected, is Mr. Taggett's comment. His faith and the correctness of his theory had not abated. But he continued his observations in a less sanguine spirit. These observations were not limited to the bar room or the workshop. He informed himself of the domestic surroundings of his comrades. Where his own scrutiny could not penetrate, he employed the aid of correspondence. He knew what workmen had money in the local savings bank, and the amount of each deposit. In the course of his explorations of the shady side of Stillwater Life, Mr. Taggett unearthed many amusing and many pathetic histories, but nothing that served his end. Finally, he began to be discouraged. Returning home from the tavern one night, in a rather desponding mood, he found the man Williston smoking his pipe in bed. Williston was a taciturn man, generally, but this night he was conversational, and Mr. Taggett, too restless to sleep, fell to chatting with him. Did he know much about the late Mr. Shackford? Yes, he had known him well enough, in an off way, not to speak of him. Everybody knew him in Stillwater. He was a sort of miser, hated everybody, and bullied everybody. It was a wonder somebody didn't knock the old silver top on the head years ago. Thus Mr. Williston grimly, with his pores stopped up with iron fillings, a person to whom it would come quite easy to knock anyone on the head, for a slight difference of opinion, he amused Mr. Taggett in his present humour. No, he wasn't aware that Shackford had had trouble with any particular individual, believed he did have a difficulty once with Slocum, the marble man. But he was always fetching suits against the town, and shying lawyers at the mill directors, a disagreeable old cuss altogether. Adopted his cousin one time, but made the house so hot for him that the lad ran off to sea, and since then had had nothing to do with the old bilk. Indeed, what sort of fellow was young Shackford? Mr. Williston could not say if his own knowledge thought him a plucky chap, he had put a big Italian named Terini out of the yard one day for talking back. Who was Terini? The man that got hurt last week in the Dana Mill. Who were Richard Shackford's intimates? Couldn't say. Had seen him with Mr. Pinkham, the schoolmaster, and Mr. Craigie, went with the upper crust generally, was going to be a partner in the marble yard and marry Slocum's daughter. Will Durgeon knew him. They lived together one time. He, Williston, was going to turn in now. Several of these facts were not new to Mr. Tagget, but Mr. Williston's presentation of them threw Mr. Tagget into a reverie. The next evening he got Durgeon alone in a corner of the bar room. With two or three potations, Durgeon became autobiographical. Was he acquainted with Mr. Shackford outside the yard? Rather. Dick Shackford, his Durgeon's mother, had kept Dick from starving when he was a baby, and no thanks for it, went to school with him and knew all about his running off to sea, was near going with him. Old man Shackford never liked Dick, who was a proud beggar. They couldn't pull together, down to the last, both of a peace. They had had Jolly Rumpus a little while before the old man was fixed. Mr. Tagget pricked up his ears at this. A Rumpus? How did Durgeon know that? A girl told him. What girl? A girl he was sweet on. What was her name? Well, he didn't mind telling her name, it was Molly Hennessey. She was going through Welch's court one forenoon. Maybe it was three days before the strike, and saw Dick Shackford bolt out of the house, swinging his arms and swearing to himself at an awful rate. Was Durgeon certain that Molly Hennessey had told him this? Yes, he was ready to take his oath on it. Here at last was something that looked like a glimmer of daylight. It was possible that Durgeon or the girl had lied. But the story had an air of truth to it. If it were a fact that there had recently been a quarrel between these cousins, whose uncousomely attitude towards each other was fast becoming clear to Mr. Tagget, then here was a conceivable key to an enigma which had puzzled him. The conjecture that Lemuel Shackford had himself torn up the will, if it was a will, for this still remained in dispute, had never been satisfactory to Mr. Tagget. He had accepted it because he was unable to imagine an ordinary burglar pausing in the midst of his work to destroy a paper in which he could have no concern, but Richard Shackford would have the liveliest possible interest in the destruction of a document that placed a vast estate beyond his reach. Here was a motive on a level with the crime. That money had been taken and that the fragments of the will had been carelessly thrown into a waste-paper basket, just as if the old man himself had thrown them there, was a stroke of art which Mr. Tagget admired more and more as he reflected upon it. He did not, however, allow himself too much stress on these points, for the paper might turn out to be merely an expired lease, and the girl might have been quizzing Durgeon. Mr. Tagget would have given one of his eye-teeth just then, for ten minutes with Mary Hennessey, but an interview with her at this stage was neither prudent nor easily compassed. If I have not struck a trail, writes Mr. Tagget, I have come upon what strongly resembles one. The least I can do is follow it. My first move must be to inspect that private workshop in the rear of Mr. Slokum's house. How shall I accomplish it? I cannot apply to him for permission, for that would provoke questions which I am not ready to answer. Moreover, I have yet to assure myself that Mr. Slokum is not implicated. There seems to have been, also, a hostile feeling existing between him and the deceased. Why didn't someone tell me these things at the start? If Young Shackford is the person, there is a tangled story to be unraveled. Memo, Young Shackford, is Miss Slokum's lover. Mr. Slokum read this passage twice without drawing breath, and then laid down the book an instant to wipe the sudden perspiration from his forehead. In the note which followed, Mr. Tagget described the difficulty he met with in procuring a key to fit the wall door at the rear of the marble-yard, and gave an account of his failure to affect an entrance into the studio. He had hoped to find a window unfastened, but the window as well as the door opening upon the veranda was locked, and in the midst of his operations, which were conducted at noontime, the approach of a servant had obliged him to retreat. Forced to lay aside, at least temporarily, his designs on the workshop, he turned his attention to Richard's lodgings in Limestreet. Here Mr. Tagget was more successful. On the pretext that he had been sent for certain drawings which were to be found on the table or in a writing desk, he was permitted by Mrs. Spooner to ascend to the bedroom, where she obligingly insisted on helping him search for the apocryphal plans and seriously interfered with his purpose, which was to find the key of the studio. While Mr. Tagget was turning over the pages of a large dictionary in order to gain time, and was wondering how he could rid himself of the old lady's importunities, he came upon a half-folded note-sheet, at the bottom of which his eye caught the name of Lemuel Shackford. It was in the handwriting of the dead man. Mr. Tagget was very familiar with that handwriting. He secured the paper at a venture, and put it in his pocket without examination. A few minutes later, it being impossible to prolong the pretended quest for the drawings, Mr. Tagget was obliged to follow Mrs. Spooner from the apartment. As he did so, he noticed a bright object lying on the corner of the mantel shelf, a small, nickel-plated key. In order to take it, he had only to reach out his hand in passing. It was, as Mr. Tagget had instantly surmised, the key of Richard's workshop. If it had been gold instead of brass or iron, that bit of metal would have taken no additional value in Mr. Tagget's eyes. Unleaving Mrs. Spooner's, he held it tightly clasped in his fingers, until he reached an unfrequented street, where he halted a moment in the shadow of a building, to inspect the paper which he had half forgotten in his satisfaction at having obtained the key. A stifled cry rose to Mr. Tagget's lips, as he glanced over the crumpled note sheet. It contained three lines, hastily scrawled in lead pencil, requesting Richard Shackford to call at the house in Welch's Court at eight o'clock on a certain Tuesday night. The note had been written, as the date showed, on the day preceding the Tuesday night in question, the night of the murder. For a second or two, Mr. Tagget stood, paralyzed. Ten minutes afterwards, a message in Cypher was pulsing along the wires to New York, and before the sun went down that evening Richard Shackford was under the surveillance of the police. The doubtful, unknown ground upon which Mr. Tagget had been floundering was now firm under his feet, unexpected ground, but solid. Meeting Mary Hennessy in the street, on his way to the marble yard, Mr. Tagget no longer hesitated to accost her, and questioned her as to the story she had told William Durgin. The girl's story was undoubtedly true, and as a piece of circumstantial evidence was only less important than the elder Shackford's note. The two cousins had been for years on the worst of terms. At every step Mr. Tagget had found corroboration, a fullest in statement to that effect. Where were the coroner Widden's eyes and ears? wrote Mr. Tagget. The words were dashed down impatiently on the page, as if he had sworn a little internally while writing them. When he conducted that inquest, in all my experience there was never a thing so stupidly managed. A thorough and immediate examination of Richard Shackford's private workshop was now so imperative that Mr. Tagget resolved to make it even if he had to do so under the authority of a search warrant, but he desired as yet to avoid publicity. A secret visit to the studio seemed equally difficult by day and night. In the former case he was nearly certain to be deranged by the servants, and in the latter a light in the unoccupied room would alarm any of the household who might chance to awaken. From the watchman no danger was to be apprehended, as the windows of the extension were not visible from the street. Mr. Tagget finally decided on the night as the more propitious time for his attempt, a decision which his success justified. A brilliant moon favoured the indoor part of the enterprise, though it exposed him to observation in his approach from the marble yard to the veranda. With the dense moonlight streaming outside against the window shades he could safely have used a candle in the studio instead of the screened lantern which he had provided. Mr. Tagget passed three hours in the workshop, the last hour in waiting for the moon to go down. Then he stole through the marble yard into the silent street and hurried home, carrying two small articles concealed under his blouse. The first was a chisel with a triangular piece broken out of the center of the bevel, and the other was a box of safety matches. The peculiarity of this box of matches was that just one match had been used from it. Mr. Tagget's work was done. The last seven pages of the diary were devoted to a review of the case, every detail of which was held up in various lights and examined with the conscientious pains of a lapidary deciding on the value of a rare stone. The concluding entries ran as follow. Tuesday night. Here the case passes into other hands. I have been fortunate rather than skillful in unmasking the chief actor in one of the most singular crimes that ever came under my investigation. By destroying three objects, very easily destroyed, Richard Shackford would have put himself beyond the dream of suspicion. He neglected to remove these dumb witnesses, and now the dumb witnesses speak. If it could be shown that he was a hundred miles from Stillwater at the time of the murder, instead of in the village as he was, he must still be held, in the face of the proofs against him, accessory to the deed. These proofs, roughly summarized, are. First, the fact that he had had an altercation with his cousin a short time previous to the date of the murder, a murder which may be regarded not as the result of a chance disagreement, but of long years of bitter enmity between the two men. Secondly, the fact that Richard Shackford had had an appointment with his cousin on the night the crime was committed, and had concealed that fact from the authorities at the time of the coroner's inquest. Thirdly, that the broken chisel found in the private workshop of the accused explains the peculiar shape of the wound which caused the mule Shackford's death, and corresponds in every particular with the plaster impression taken of that wound. Fourthly, that the partially consumed match found on the scullery floor when the body was discovered, a style of match not used in the house in Welch's court, completes the complement of a box of safety matches belonging to Richard Shackford, and hidden in a closet in his workshop. Whether Shackford had an accomplice or not is yet to be ascertained. There is nothing whatever to implicate Mr. Rowland's locombe. I make the statement because his intimate association with one party, and his deep dislike of the other, invited inquiry, and at first raised an unjust suspicion in my mind. The little red book slipped from Mr. Slocum's grasp, and fell at his feet. As he rose from the chair, the reflection which he caught of himself in the dressing-table mirror was that of a wrinkled, white, old man. Mr. Slocum did not believe, and no human evidence could have convinced him, that Richard had deliberately killed Lumeol Shackford, but as Mr. Slocum reached the final pages of the diary, a horrible probability insinuated itself in his mind. Could Richard have done it accidentally? Could he, in an instant of passion, stung to sudden madness by that venomous old man, have struck him involuntarily and killed him? A certain speech which Richard had made in Mr. Slocum's presence, not long before, came back to him now, with fearful emphasis. Three or four times in my life I have been carried away by a devil of a temper which I couldn't control. It seized me so unawares. It seized me so unawares! repeated Mr. Slocum half-allowed, and then with a swift, unconscious gesture he pressed his hands over his ears, as if to shut out the words. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of the Stillwater Tragedy This Libervox recording is in the public domain The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldridge Chapter 21 Margaret must be told. It would be like stabbing her to tell her all this. Mr. Slocum had lain awake long after midnight, appalled by the calamity that was about to engulf them. At moments, as his thought reverted to Margaret's illness early in the spring, he felt that perhaps it would have been a mercy if she had died then. He had left the candles burning. It was not until the wicks sunk down in the sockets and went softly out that slumber fell upon him. He was now sitting at the breakfast table, absently crumbling bits of bread beside his plate and leaving his coffee untouched. Margaret glanced at him wistfully from time to time and detected the restless night in the deepened lines of his face. The house had not been the same since Lemuel Shackford's death. He had never crossed its threshold. Margaret had scarcely known him by sight, and Mr. Slocum had not spoken to him for years. But Richard's connection with the unfortunate old man had brought the tragic event very close to Margaret and her father. Mr. Slocum was a person easily depressed, but his depression this morning was so greatly in excess of the presumable cause that Margaret began to be troubled. Papa, has anything happened? No, nothing new has happened, but I am dreadfully disturbed by some things which Mr. Taggart has been doing here in the village. I thought Mr. Taggart had gone. He did go, but he came back very quietly without anybody's knowledge. I knew it, of course, but no one else to speak of. What has he done to disturb you? I want you to be a brave girl, Margaret. Will you promise that? Why, yes, said Margaret with an anxious look. You frighten me with your mysteriousness. I do not mean to be mysterious, but I don't quite know how to tell you about Mr. Taggart. He has been working underground in this matter of poor Shackford's death, boring into the dark, like a mole, and thinks he has discovered some strange things. Do you mean he thinks he has found out who killed Mr. Shackford? He believes he has fallen upon clues which lead to that. The strange things I alluded to are things which Richard will have to explain. Richard, what is he to do with it? Not much, I hope, but there are several matters which he will be obliged to clear up in order to save himself from very great annoyance. Mr. Taggart seems to think that—that— Good heavens, Papa! What does he think? Margaret? He thinks that Richard knew something about the murder, and has not told it. What could he know? Is that all? No, that is not all. I am keeping the full truth from you, and it is useless to do so. You must face it like a brave girl. Mr. Taggart suspects Richard of being concerned, directly or indirectly, with the crime. The colour went from Margaret's cheek for an instant. The statement was too horrible and sudden not to startle her, but it was also too absurd to have more than an instant's effect. Her quick recovery of herself reassured Mr. Slocum. Would she meet Mr. Taggart's specific charges with the like fortitude? Mr. Slocum himself had been prostrated by them. He prayed to heaven that Margaret might have more strength than he, as indeed she had. The man has got together a lot of circumstantial evidence. Continued Mr. Slocum cautiously. Some of it amounts to nothing, being mere conjecture, but some of it will look badly for Richard, two outsiders. Of course it is all a mistake, said Margaret in nearly her natural voice. It ought to be easy to convince Mr. Taggart of that. I have not been able to convince him. But you will. What has possessed him to fall into such a ridiculous error? Mr. Taggart has written out everything at length in this memorandum book, and you must read it for yourself. There are expressions and statements in these pages, Margaret, that will necessarily shock you very much. But you should remember, as I try to while reading them, that Mr. Taggart has a heart of steel. Without it he would be unable to do his distressing work. The cold impartiality with which he sifts and heaps up circumstances, involving the doom of a fellow creature, appears almost inhuman. But it is his business. No, do not look at it here, said Mr. Slocum, recoiling, as he had given the book to Margaret. Take it into the other room and read it carefully by yourself. When you have finished, come back and tell me what you think. But Papa, surely you— I don't believe anything, Margaret. I don't know the truth from the false any more. I want you to help me out of my confusion, and you cannot do it until you have read that book. Margaret made no response, but passed into the parlor and closed the folding doors behind her. After an absence of half an hour she re-entered the breakfast room, and laid Mr. Tagget's diary on the table beside her father, who had not moved from his place during the interval. Margaret's manner was collected, but it was evident, by the dark circles under her eyes, and the set, colorless lips, that that half hour had been a cruel thirty minutes to her. In Margaret's self-possession Mr. Slocum recognized, not for the first time, the cropping out of an ancestral trait which had somehow managed to avoid him in its wayward descent. Well, he questioned, looking earnestly at Margaret, and catching a kind of comfort from her confident bearing. It is Mr. Tagget's trait to find somebody guilty, said Margaret, and he has been very ingenious and very merciless. He was plainly at his wit's end to sustain his reputation, and would not have hesitated to sacrifice anyone, rather than wholly fail. But you have been crying, Margaret. How could I see Richard drag down in the dust in this fashion, and not be mortified and indignant? You don't believe anything at all of this? Do you? asked Margaret, looking through and through him. I confess, I am troubled. If you doubt Richard for a second, said Margaret, with the slight quiver of her lip, that will be the bitterest part of it to me. I don't give any more credit to Mr. Tagget's general charges than you do, Margaret, but I understand their gravity better. A perfectly guiltless man, when able with a single word to establish his innocence, is necessarily crushed at first by an accusation of this kind. Now, can Richard set these matters right with a single word? I am afraid he has a world of difficulty before him. When he returns, he will explain everything. How can you question it? I do not wish to, but there are two things in Mr. Tagget's story which stagger me. The motive for the destruction of Shackford's papers. That's not plain. The box of matches is a plurality, unworthy of a clever man like Mr. Tagget. And as to the chisel he found, why, there are a hundred broken chisels in the village, and probably a score of them broken in precisely the same manner. But, Margaret, did Richard ever breathe a word to you of that quarrel with his cousin? No. He never mentioned it to me, either. As matters stood between you and him, nothing was more natural than he should have spoken of it to you, so natural that his silence is positively strange. He may have considered it too unimportant. Mr. Shackford always abused Richard. It was nothing new. Then again Richard is very proud, and perhaps he did not care to come to us just at that time with family grievances. Besides, how do we know they quarreled? The village is full of gossip. I am certain there was a quarrel. It was only necessary for those two to meet to ensure that. I distinctly remember the forenoon when Richard went to Welch's court. It was the day he discharged to Renie. A little cloud passed over Margaret's countenance. They undoubtedly had angry words together, continued Mr. Slocum. And we are forced to accept the Hennessy girl's statement. The reason you suggest for Richard's not saying anything on the subject may suffice for us, but it will scarcely satisfy disinterested persons, and doesn't at all cover another circumstance which must be taken in the same connection. What circumstance? His silence in regard to Lumiereau Shackford's note ain't no to written the day before the murder and making an appointment for the very night of it. The girl looks steadily at her father. Margaret! exclaimed Mr. Slocum. His face illuminated with a flickering hope as he met her untroubled gaze. Did Richard tell you? No, replied Margaret. Then he told no one, said Mr. Slocum, with the light fading out of his features again. It was madness in him to conceal the fact. He should not have lost a moment after the death of his cousin in making that letter public. It ought instantly to have been placed in Coroner Wooden's hands. Richard's action is inconceivable. Unless—unless— Do not say it! cried Margaret. I should never forgive you. In recapitulating the points of Mr. Taggett's accusation, Mr. Slocum had treated most of them as trivial, but he had not been sincere. He knew that the broken chisel had no duplicate in still water, and that the finding of it in Richard's closet was a black fact. Mr. Slocum had also glossed over the quarrel, but that letter—the likelihood that Richard kept the appointment and his absolute silence concerning it—here was a grim thing which no sophistry could dispose of. It would be wronging Margaret to deceive her, as to the vital seriousness of Richard's position. Why—why did he hide it? Mr. Slocum persisted. I do not see that he really hid it, Papa. He shut the note in a book lying open on the table, a dictionary to which anyone in the household was likely to go. You think Mr. Taggett a person of great acuteness. He is a very intelligent person, Margaret. He appears to me very short-sighted. If Richard were the dreadful man Mr. Taggett supposes, that paper would have been burnt and not left for the first comer to pick up. I scorned myself for stooping to the suggestion. There is something in the idea, said Mr. Slocum slowly. But why did Richard never mention the note, to you or to me or to anybody? He had a sufficient reason, you may be sure. Oh, Papa, how ready you are to believe evil of him! I am not, God knows! How you cling to this story of the letter! Suppose it turns out to be some old letter, written two or three years ago. You could never look Richard in the face again. Unfortunately, Shackford dated it. It is useless for us to blindfold ourselves, Margaret. Richard has managed in some way to get himself into a very perilous situation, and we cannot help him by shutting our eyes. You misconceive me, if you imagine, I think him capable of coolly plotting his cousin's death. But it is not outside the limits of the possible. That what has happened a thousand times may have happened once more. Men less impulsive than Richard! I will not listen to it, interrupted Margaret, drawing herself up. When Richard returns, he will explain the matter to you. Not to me. If I required a word of denial from him, I should care very little, whether he was innocent or not. Mr. Slocum threw a terrified glance at his daughter. Her lofty faith sent a chill to his heart. What would be the result of a fall from such a height? He almost wished Margaret had something less of that ancestral confidence and obstinacy, the lack of which in his own composition he had so often deplored. We are not going to speak of this to Richard, he said, after a protracted pause. At least not, until Mr. Ticket considers it best. I have pledged myself to something like that. Has Richard been informed of Mr. Ticket's singular proceeding? Asked Margaret, freezingly. Not yet. Nothing is to be done until Mr. Ticket returns from New York, and then Richard will at once have an opportunity of clearing himself. It would have spared us all much pain and misunderstanding, if he had been sent for in the first instance. Did he know that this person was here in the yard? The plan was talked over before Richard left. The details were arranged afterwards. He hardly approved of the plan. Alegiorly, and not altogether, Saint-like smile crept into the corners of Margaret's mouth. Yes, he approved of the plan, replied Mr. Slocum. Perhaps he... Here Mr. Slocum checked himself, and left the sentence flying at loose ends. Perhaps Richard had looked with favour upon a method of inquiry, which was so likely to lead to no result. But Mr. Slocum did not venture to finish the suggestion. He had never seen Margaret so imperious and intractable. It was impossible to reason or talk frankly with her. He remained silent, sitting with one arm thrown dejectedly, across the back of the chair. Presently his abject attitude and expression began to touch Margaret. There was something that appealed to her in the thin gray hair fallowing over his forehead. Her eyes softened as they rested upon him, and a pitying little tremor came to her under lip. Papa, she said, stooping to his side, with a sudden rosy bloom in her cheeks. I have all the proof I want that Richard knew nothing of this dreadful business. You have proof? exclaimed Mr. Slocum, starting from his seat. Yes. The morning Richard went to New York, Margaret hesitated. Well? He put his arm around me and kissed me. Well? Well, repeated Margaret. Could Richard have done that? Could he have so much as laid his hand upon me? If—if— Mr. Slocum sunk back into the chair with a kind of groan. Papa, you do not know him. Oh, Margaret, I am afraid that is not the kind of evidence to clear Richard, in Mr. Tagget's eyes. Then Richard's word must do it, she said haughtily. He will be home to-night. Yes, he is to return to-night," said Mr. Slocum, looking away from her. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Of The Stillwater Tragedy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich Chapter 22 During the rest of the day the name of Richard Shackford was not mentioned again by either Margaret or her father. It was a day of suspense to both, and long before nightfall, Margaret's impatience for Richard to come had resolved itself into a pain, as keen as that with which Mr. Slocum contemplated the coming, for every hour augmented his dread of the events that would necessarily follow the reappearance of young Shackford in Stillwater. On reaching his office, after the conversation with Margaret, Mr. Slocum found Lawyer Perkins waiting for him. Lawyer Perkins, who was as yet in ignorance of the late developments, had brought information of his own. The mutilated document which had so grimly clung to its secret was at last deciphered. It proved to be a recently executed will, in which the greater part of Lemieux Shackford's estate, real and personal, was left unconditionally to his cousin. That disposes of one of Mr. Tagger's theories, was Mr. Slocum's unspoken reflection. Certainly Richard had not destroyed the will. The old man himself had destroyed it, probably in some fit of peak. Yet, after all, the vital question was in no way affected by this fact. The motive for the crime remained, and the fearful evidence against Richard still held. After the departure of Lawyer Perkins, who had been struck by the singular perturbation of his old friend, Mr. Slocum drew forth Mr. Tagger's journal, and reread it from beginning to end. Margaret's unquestioning faith in Richard, her prompt and indignant rejection of the whole story, had shaken her father at moments that morning, but now his paralyzing doubts returned. This second perusal of the diary impressed him even more strongly than the first. Richard had killed Lemieux Shackford, in self-defense maybe, or perhaps accidentally, but he had killed him. As Mr. Slocum passed from page to page, following the dark thread of narrative that darkened at each remove, he lapsed into that illogical frame of mind when one looks half-expectantly for some providential interposition to avert the calamity against which human means are impotent. If Richard were to drop dead in the street, if he were to fall overboard off Point Judith in the night, if only anything would happen to prevent his coming back, thus the ultimate disgrace might be spared them. But the ill thing is the sure thing, the letter with the black seal never miscarries, and Richard was bound to come. There is no escape for him or us, murmured Mr. Slocum, closing his finger in the book. It was in a different mood that Margaret said to herself, it is nearly four o'clock, he will be here at eight. As she stood at the parlor window and watched the waning afternoon light making its farewells to the flower beds and little square front gardens of the house's opposite, Margaret's heart was filled with the tenderness of the greeting she intended to give Richard. She had never been cold or shy in her demeanor with him, nor has she ever been quite demonstrative. But now she meant to put her arms around his neck in a wifely fashion and recompense him so far as she could for all the injustice he was to suffer. When he came to learn of the hateful slander that had lifted its head during his absence, he would surely be in possession of the assurance of her faith. In the meanwhile the hands in Slocum's yard were much exercised over the unaccountable disappearance of Blake. Stevens reported the matter to Mr. Slocum. Ah, yes, said Mr. Slocum, who had not provided himself with an explanation and was puzzled to improvise one. I discharged him. That is to say, I let him go. I forgot to mention it. He didn't take to the trade. But he showed a good fist for a beginner, said Stevens. He was head and shoulders the best of the new lot. Shall I put Stebbins in his place? You needn't do anything till Mr. Shackford gets back. When will that be, sir? Tonight, probably. The unceremonious departure of Blake formed the theme of endless speculation at the tavern that evening, and for the moment obscured the general interest in old Shackford's murder. Never till I'd on he was going, said one. Deemed say goodbye to nobody, remarked a second. It was devilish uncivil, added a third. It's kind of mysterious, said Mr. Peters. Some girl, suggested Mr. Wilson, with an air of tender sentiment, which he attempted further to emphasize by a capricious wink. No, observed Dexter. When a man vanishes in that sudden way, his body is generally found in a clump of blackberry bushes, months afterwards, or left somewhere on the flats by an ebtide. To what isn't still water in one month would be rather crowded, wouldn't it? Inquired picket. Bosh, said Durgin. There was always something shady about Blake. We didn't know where he hailed from, and we don't know where he's gone to. He'll take care of himself. That kind of fella never lets anybody play any points on him. With this, Durgin threw away the stump of his cigar, and lounged out at the street door. I couldn't get anything out of the proprietor, said Stevens, but he never talks. Maybe Shackford, when he— Steven stopped short to listen to a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder, followed almost instantly by two quick, faint whistles. He's aboard the train to-night. Mr. Peters quietly rose from his seat and left the bar-room. The evening express, due at eight, was only a few seconds behind time. As the screech of the approaching engine rung out from the dark woodland, Margaret and her father exchanged rapid glances. It would take Richard ten minutes to walk from the railway station to the house, for of course he would come there directly after sending his valise to Lime Street. The ten minutes went by, and then twenty. Margaret bent steadily over her work, listening with covert intentness for the click of the street gate. Likely enough Richard had been unable to find anyone to take care of his hand baggage. Presently Mr. Slocum could not resist the impulse to look at his watch. It was half-past eight. He nervously unfolded the still-water gazette, and sat with his eyes fastened on the paper. After a seemingly interminable period, the heavy bell of the South Church sounded nine, and then told for a few minutes, as the dismal custom is in New England country towns. A long silence followed, unrelieved by any word between father and daughter. A silence so profound, that the heart of the old-fashioned timepiece, throbbing monotonously in its dusty case at the foot of the stairs, made itself audible through the room. Mr. Slocum's gaze continued, fixed on the newspaper, which he was not reading. Margaret's hands lay crossed over the work on her lap. Ten o'clock. What can have kept him? murmured Margaret. There was only one way out of it, reflected Mr. Slocum, pursuing his own line of thought. Margaret's cheeks were flushed and hot, and her eyes dulled with disappointment, as she rose from the low rocking chair and crossed over to kiss her father good-night. Mr. Slocum drew the girl gently towards him, and held her for a moment in silence. But Margaret, detecting the subtle commiseration in his manner, resented it, and released herself coldly. He has been detained, Papa. Yes. Something must have detained him. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of the Stillwater Tragedy This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich Chapter 23 When the Down Express arrived at Stillwater that night, two passengers stepped from the rear car to the platform. One was Richard Chakford, and the other a commercial traveler, whose acquaintance Richard had made the previous evening on the full riverboat. There were no hacks in waiting at the station, and Richard found his politeness put to a severe test when he saw himself obliged to pilot his companion part of the way to the hotel, which lay, it seemed almost maliciously, in a section of town remote from the Slocums. Curbing his impatience, Richard led the stranger through several crooked, unlighted streets, and finally left him at the corner of the main thoroughfare, within pistol shot of the red-glass lantern which hung over the door of the tavern. This cost Richard ten good minutes. As he hurriedly turned into a cross-street on the left, he fancied that he heard his name called, several times, from somewhere in the darkness. A man came running towards him. It was Mr. Peters. Can I say a word to you, Mr. Chakford? If it isn't a long one, I am rather pressed. It is about Terini, sir. What of him? He's mighty bad, sir. Oh, I can't stop to hear that. And Richard quickened his pace. The doctor took off his hand last Wednesday, said Peters, keeping alongside, and he's been getting worse and worse. Richard halted, took off his hand. Didn't you know he was caught in the rolling machine at Dana's? Well, it was after you went away. This is the first I've heard of it. It was hard lines for him, sir. With the woman and the two children, and nothing to eat in the house, the boys in the yard have done what they could. But with the things from the drugstore and so on, we couldn't hold up our end. Mr. Dana paid the doctor's bill, but if it hadn't been for Miss Slocum, I don't know what would have happened. I thought maybe if I spoke to you and told you how it was. Did Terini send you? Lord no. He's too proud to send anybody. He's been so proud since they took off his hand, that there has been no doing anything with him. If they were to take off his leg, he would turn to one mass of pride. No, Mr. Chakford. I came of myself. Where does Terini live now? In Mitchell's alley. I will go along with you, said Richard, with a dogged air. It seemed as if the fates were determined to keep him from seeing Margaret that night. Peters reached out a hand to take Richard's leather bag. No, thank you. I can carry it very well. In a small Morocco case in one of the pockets was a heavy plain gold ring for Margaret, and not for anything in the world would Richard have allowed anyone else to carry the bag. After a brisk five minutes walk, the two emerged upon a broad street crossing their path at right angles. All the shops were closed except Stubbs, the provision dealers, and Dundon's drugstore. In the window of the apothecary, a great purple jar, with a spray of gas jets behind it, was flaring on the darkness like a bangle light. Richard stopped at the provision store and made some purchases. A little further on he halted at a fruit stand, kept by an old crone, who had supplemented the feeble flicker of the corner street lamp with a pitch pine torch, which cast a yellow bloom over her apples and turned them all into oranges. She had real oranges, however, and Richard selected half a dozen, with a confused idea of providing the little Italians with some national fruit, though both children had been born in still water. Then the pair resumed their way, Peters acting as pioneer. They soon passed beyond the region of sidewalks and curb stones, and began picking their steps through a narrow, humid lane, where the water lay in slimy pools, and the tenement houses on each side blotted out the faint starlight. The night was sultry, and door encasement stood wide, making pits of darkness. Few lights were visible, but a continuous hum of voices issued from the human hives, and now and then a transient red glow at an upper window showed that someone was smoking a pipe. This was Mitchell's alley. The shadows closed behind the two men as they moved forward, and neither was aware of the figure which had been discreetly following them for the last ten minutes. If Richard had suddenly wheeled and gone back a dozen paces, he would have come face to face with the commercial traveller. Mr. Peters paused in front of one of the tenement houses and motioned with his thumb over his shoulder for Richard to follow him through a yawning doorway. The hall was as dark as a cave, and full of stale, moldy odours. Peter shuffled cautiously along the bare boards until he kicked his toe against the first step of the staircase. Keep close to the wall, Mr. Shackford, and feel your way up. They've used the banisters for kindling, and the landlord says he shan't put in any more. I went over here the other night. Added Mr. Peters reman essentially. After fumbling several seconds for the latch, Mr. Peters pushed open a door and ushered Richard into a large, gloomy rear room. A kerosene lamp was burning dimly on the mantel shelf, over which hung a coarsely coloured lithograph of the Virgin in a pine frame. Under the pictures stood a small black crucifix. There was little furniture, a cooking stove, two or three stools, a broken table, and a chest of drawers. On an iron bedstead in the corner, lay Tarini, muffled to the chin in a blanket, despite the hot midsummer night. His right arm, as if it were wholly disconnected with his body, rested in a splint on the outside of the covering. As the visitors entered, a tall dusky woman with blurred eyes rose from a low bench at the foot of the bed. Is he awake? asked Peters. The woman comprehending the glance which accompanied the words, though not the words themselves, nodded yes. Here is Mr. Shackford come to see you, Tarini, Peters said. The man slowly unclothed his eyes. They were unnaturally brilliant and dilated, and seemed to absorb the rest of his features. I didn't want him. Let bygones be bygones, Tarini, said Richard, approaching the bedside. I am sorry about this. You are very good. I don't understand. I ask nothing of Slocum, but the signorina comes every day, and I cannot help it. What would you have? I am a dead man. And he turned away his face. It is not so bad as that, said Richard. Tarini looked up with a ghastly smile. They have cut off the hand that struck you, Mr. Shackford. I suppose it was necessary. I am very sorry. In a little while you will be on your feet again. It is too late. They might have saved me by taking the arm, but I would not allow them. I may last three or four days. The doctor says it. Peters, standing in the shadow, jerked his head affirmatively. I do not care for myself. The man continued, but she and the little ones, that is what maddens me. They will starve. They will not be led to starve in still water, said Richard. Tarini turned his eyes upon him wistfully and doubtfully. He will help them? Yes, I and others. If they could be got to Italy, said Tarini after meditating, it would be well. Our father, giving a side look at the woman, is a fisherman of Capri. At the word Capri, the woman lifted her head quickly. He is not rich, but he is not poor, and he would take her. You would wish her sent to Naples? Yes. If you do not pull through, she and the children shall go there. Brigitta, said Tarini, then he said something rapidly in Italian to the woman, who buried her face in both hands and did not reply. She has no words to thank you. See, she is a tired to death, with the children of day and me all night, these many nights. Tell her to go to bed in the other room, said Richard. There's another room, isn't there? I'll sit with you. You? Your wife is fagged out, that is plain. Send her to bed, and don't talk any more. Peters, I wish you'd run and get a piece of ice somewhere. There's no drinking water here. Come now, Tarini. I can't speak Italian. Oh, I don't mind your scowling. I intend to stay. Tarini slowly unknitted his brows, and an irresolute expression stole across his face. Then he called Brigitta, and bade her to go in with the children. She bowed her head submissively, and fixing her melting eyes on Richard for an instant, passed into the adjoining chamber. Peters shortly reappeared with the ice, and after setting a jug of water on the table, departed. Richard turned up the wick of the kerosene lamp, which was sending forth a disagreeable odor, and pinned an old newspaper around the chimney to screen the flame. He had, by an odd chance, made his lampshade out of a copy of the Stillwater Gazette, containing the announcement of his cousin's death. Richard gave a quick start, as his eyes caught the illuminated headlines, mysterious murder of Lemuel Shackford. Perhaps a slight exclamation escaped Richard's lips at the same time, for Turini turned and asked what was the matter. Nothing at all, said Richard, removing the paper, and placing another in its stead. Then he threw open the blinds of the window, looking on the backyard, and set his handbag against the door to prevent it being blown to by the draft. Turini, without altering the rigid position of his head on the pillow, followed every movement with the look of curious insistence, like that of the eyes in a portrait. His preparations completed for the night. Richard seated himself on a stool at the foot of the bed. The obscurity and stillness of the room had their effect upon the sick man, who presently dropped into a light sleep. Richard sat thinking of Margaret, and began to be troubled because he had neglected to send her word of his detention, which he might have done by Peters. It was now too late. The town clock struck ten in the midst of his self-approaches. At the first clang of the bell, Turini awoke with a start and asked for water. If anybody comes, he said, glancing in a bewildered, anxious way at the shadows, huddled about the door, you are not to leave me alone with him. Him? Whom? Are you expecting any one? No. But who knows? One might come. Then you are not to go, you are not to leave me for a second. I've no thought of it, replied Richard. You may rest easy. He's a trifle light in the head, was Richard's reflection. After that Turini dozed rather than slumbered. Rousing at brief intervals, and whenever he awoke, the feverish activity of his brain incited him to talk. Now of Italy, and now of matters connected with his experiences in this country. Naples is a pleasant place. He broke out in the hush of the midnight, just as Richard was dropping off. The band plays every afternoon on the ciaia, and then the festas. Every third day a festa. The devil was in my body when I left there, and dragged little Brigitte into all this misery. We used to walk of an evening along the marinella. That's a strip of beach beyond the Mola Piccola. You are never in Naples. Not I, said Richard. Here, wet your lips, and try to go to sleep again. I know, I can't sleep for thinking. When the Sinerina came to see me the other day, her heart was pierced with pity, like the blessed Madonna's. Her bosom bleeds for all. You will let her come tomorrow. Yes, yes. If you only keep quiet, the Margaret shall come. Macrita, we say. You are to wed her. Is it a not so? Richard turned down the wick of the lamp, which was blazing and spluttering, and did not answer. Then Terini lay silent for a long while, apparently listening to the hum of the telegraph wires attached to one end of the roof. At odd intervals the freshening breeze swept these wires and awoke a low Eolean murmur. The moon rose in the meantime and painted on the uncarpeted floor the shape of the cherry-bow that stretched across the window. It was two o'clock. Richard sat with his head bent forward in a drowse. Na, the cousin is dead. You are as rich as a prince, are you not? inquired Terini, who had laid for the last half hour with his eyes wide open in the moonlight. Richard straightened himself with a jerk. Terini, I positively forbid you to talk any more. I remember you said one day, somewhere, where was it? Ah, in the yard. You can't be allowed to speak here, you know. And then I struck at you, with that hand I've taken away. See how I remember it. Why do you bother your mind with such things? Think of just nothing at all and rest. Perhaps a wet cloth on your forehead will refresh you. I wish you had a little of my genius, for not keeping awake. You are tired, you? I have had two broken nights travelling. And I give you no peace? Well, no, returned Richard bluntly, hoping the admission would induce Terini to tranquilize himself. You don't give me much. Has anyone been here? demanded Terini abruptly. Not a soul. Good heaven-man, do you know what time it is? I know, I know, it's very late. I ought to keep quiet. But the devil with his fever in my brain, Mr. Shackford. And Terini, in spite of his imprisoned limb, suddenly half-raced himself from the mattress. I, I, Richard sprung to his feet. What is it? What do you want? Nothing, said Terini, falling back on the pillow. Richard brought him a glass of water, which he refused. He lay motionless, with his eyes shut, as if composing himself, and Richard returned on tiptoe to his bench. A moment or two afterwards, Terini stirred the blanket with his foot. Mr. Shackford. Well, I am as grateful as a dog. Terini did not speak again. This expression of his gratitude appeared to ease him. His respiration grew lighter and more regular, and by and by he fell into a profound sleep. Richard watched awhile expectantly, with his head resting against the rail of the bedstead. Then his eyelids drooped, and he too slumbered. But once or twice, before he quite lost himself, he was conscious of Brigitte's thin face thrust like a silver wedge through the half-open door of the whole bedroom. It was the last thing he remembered, that sharp pale face peering out from the blackness of the inner chamber, as his grasp loosened on the world, and he drifted off on the tide of a dream. A narrow white hand like a child's seemed to be laid against his breast. It was not Margaret's hand, and yet it was hers. No, it was the plaster model he had made that idle summer afternoon, years and years before he had ever thought of loving her. Strange for it to be there. Then Richard began wondering how the gold ring would look on the slender forefinger. He unfastened the leather bag and took out the ring. He was vainly trying to pass it over the first joint of the dead white finger, when the cast slipped from his hold and fell with a crash to the floor. Richard gave a shutter and opened his eyes. Brigitte was noiselessly approaching Turini's bedside. Turini still slept. It was broad day. Through the uncurrent window Richard saw the blue sky barred with crimson. Richard did come home last night, after all, said Mr. Slocum, with a flustered air, seating himself at the breakfast table. Margaret looked up quickly. I just met Peters on the street and he told me, added Mr. Slocum. Richard returned last night and did not come to us. It seems that he watched with Turini. The man is going to die. Oh! said Margaret, cooling instantly. That was like Richard. He never thinks of himself first. I would not have had him do differently. Last night you were filled with I don't know what horrible suspicions, yet see how simply everything explains itself. If I could speak candidly, Margaret, if I could express myself without putting you into a passion, I would tell you that research passing the night with that man has given me two or three ugly ideas. Positively, Papa, you are worse than Mr. Taggart. I shall not say another word, replied Mr. Slocum. Then he unfolded the newspaper lying beside him and constructed a barrier against further colloquy. An hour afterwards, when Richard threw open the door of his private workshop, Margaret was standing in the middle of the room waiting for him. She turned with a little cry of pleasure and allowed Richard to take her in his arms and kept to the spirit and the letter of the promise she had made to herself. If there was an unwanted gravity in Margaret's manner, Young Shackford was not keen enough to perceive it. All that morning, wherever he went, he carried with him a sense of Margaret's face, resting for a moment against his shoulder, and the happiness of it rendered him wholly oblivious to the constrained and chilly demeanor of her father when they met. The interview was purposely cut short by Mr. Slocum, who avoided Richard the rest of the day with a persistency that must have ended enforcing itself upon his notice, had he not been so engrossed by the work which had accumulated during his absence. Mr. Slocum had left the correspondence go to the wins and a formidable collection of unanswered letters lay on Shackford's desk. The forenoon was consumed in reducing the pile and settling the questions that had risen in the shops, for Mr. Slocum had neglected everything. Richard was speedily advised of Blake's dismissal from the yard, but not knowing what explanation had been offered, was unable to satisfy Stephen's curiosity on the subject. I must see Slocum about that at once, reflected Richard, but the opportunity did not occur, and he was too much pressed to make a special business of it. Mr. Slocum, meanwhile, was in a wretched state of suspense and apprehension. Justice Bemis's clerk had served some sort of legal paper, presumably a subpoena on Richard, who had coolly read it in the yard under the gaze of all, and given no sign of discomposure beyond a momentary lifting of the eyebrows. Then he had carelessly thrust the paper into one of his pockets and continued his directions to the men. Clearly he had as yet no suspicion of the mine that was ready to be sprung under his feet. Shortly after this little incident, which Mr. Slocum had witnessed from the window of the counting room, Richard spoke a word or two to Stephen's and quitted the yard. Mr. Slocum dropped into the carving department. Where is Mr. Shackford, Stephen's? He has gone to Mitchell's alley, sir, said he'd be away an hour. Am I to say he was wanted? No, replied Mr. Slocum hastily. Anytime will do. You didn't mention that I inquired for him. And Mr. Slocum returned to the counting room. Before the hour expired, he again distinguished Richard's voice in the workshops, and the cheery tone of it was a positive affront to Mr. Slocum. Looking back to the week prior to the tragedy in Welch's court, he recollected Richard's unaccountable dejection. He had had the air of a person meditating some momentous step, the pallor, the set face, and the introspective eyes. Then came the murder, and Richard's complete frustration. Mr. Slocum in his own excitement had noted it superficially at the time, but now he recalled the young man's inordinate sorrow, and it seemed rather like remorse. What's his present immobile serenity, the natural expression of a man whose heart had suddenly ossified and was no longer capable of throbbing with its guilt? Richard Shackford was rapidly becoming an awful problem to Mr. Slocum. Since the death of his cousin, Richard had not been so much like his former self. He appeared to have taken up his cheerfulness at the point where he had dropped it three weeks before. If there were any weight resting on his mind, he bore it lightly, with a kind of careless defiance. In his visit that forenoon to Mitchell's alley, he had arranged for Mrs. Morkinson, his cousin's old housekeeper, to watch with Terini the ensuing night. This left Richard at liberty to spend the evening with Margaret, and finish his correspondence. Directly after tea he repaired to the studio, and lighting the German student lamp, fell to work on the letters. Margaret came in shortly with a magazine, and seated herself near the round table at which he was writing. She had dreaded this evening. It could scarcely pass without some mention of Mr. Taggart, and she had resolved not to speak of him. If Richard questioned her it would be very distressing. How could she tell Richard that Mr. Taggart accused him of the murder of his cousin, and that her own father half believed the accusation? No, she could never acknowledge that. For nearly an hour the silence of the room was interrupted, only by the scratching of Richard's pen and the rustling of the magazine as Margaret turned the leaf. Now and then he looked up and caught her eye, and smiled, and went on with his task. It was a veritable return of the old times. Margaret became absorbed in the story she was reading, and forgot her uneasiness. Her left hand rested on the pile of answered letters, to which Richard added one at intervals, she mechanically lifting her palm and replacing it on the fresh manuscript. Presently Richard observed this movement, and smiled in secret at the slim white hand, unconsciously making a paperweight of itself. He regarded it covertly for a moment, and then his disastrous dream occurred to him. There should be no mistake this time. He drew the small Morocco case from his pocket, and leaning across the table, slipped the ring on Margaret's finger. Margaret gave a bewildered start, and then seeing what Richard had done, held out her hand to him with a gracious, impetuous little gesture. I meant to give it to you this morning, he said, pressing his lip to the ring, but the daylight did not seem fine enough for it. I thought you had forgotten, said Margaret, slowly turning the band on her finger. The first thing I did in New York was to go to a jeweler's for this ring, and since then I have guarded it day and night, as dragonishly as if it had been the co-innuer diamond, or some inestable gem which hundreds of envious persons were lying in wait to rest from me. Walking the streets with this trinket in my possession, I have actually had a sense of personal insecurity. I seem to invite general assault. That was being very sentimental, was it not? Yes, perhaps. That small piece of gold meant so much to me. And to me, said Margaret, have you finished your letters? Not yet. I shall be through in ten minutes, and then we'll have the evening to ourselves. Richard hurriedly resumed his writing, and Margaret turned to her novel again, but the interest had faded out of it. The figures had grown threadbare and indistinct, like the figures in a piece of old tapestry, and after a moment or two the magazine glided with an unnoticed flutter into the girl's lap. She sat absently, twirling the gold loop on her finger. Richard added the address to the final envelope, dried it with the blotter, and abruptly, shut down the lid of the ink stand, with an air of his great satisfaction, as if he had been the fisherman in the Arabian story, corking up the wicked Afrit. With his finger still pressing the leaden cover, as if he were afraid the imp of toil would get out again, he was suddenly impressed by the fact that he had seen very little of Mr. Slokum that day. I have hardly spoken to him, he reflected. Where is your father tonight? He has a headache, said Margaret. He went to his room immediately after supper. It's nothing serious, of course. I fancy not. Papa is easily excited, and he has had a great deal to trouble him lately. The strike and all that. I wonder if Mr. Tagget has been bothering him. I daresay Mr. Tagget has bothered him. You knew of his being in the yard? Not while he was here. Papa told me yesterday. I think Mr. Tagget was scarcely the person to render much assistance. Then he has found nothing whatever. Nothing important. But anything? Trifles are of importance in a matter like this. Your father never wrote me a word about Tagget. Mr. Tagget has made a failure of it, Richard. If nothing new has transpired, then I do not understand the summons I receive today. A summons? I have the paper somewhere. No, it is in the pocket of my other coat. I take it there is to be a consultation of some kind at Justice Bemis's office to-morrow. I am very glad, said Margaret with her face brightening. Tomorrow would lift the cloud which had spread itself over them all, and was pressing down so heavily on one unconscious head. Tomorrow Richard's innocent should shine forth and confound Mr. Tagget. A vague bitterness rose in Margaret's heart as she thought of her father. Let us talk of something else, she said, breastfully breaking her paws. Let us talk of something pleasant. Of ourselves, then, suggested Richard, banishing the shadow which had gathered in his eyes at his first mention of Mr. Tagget's name. Of ourselves, repeated Margaret gaily. Then you must give me your hand, stipulated Richard, drawing his chair closer to hers. There, said Margaret. While this was passing, Mr. Slocum, in the solitude of his chamber, was vainly attempting to solve the question whether he had not disregarded all the dictates of duty and common sense and allowing Margaret to spend the evening alone with Richard Chakford. Mr. Slocum saw one thing with painful distinctness, that he could not help himself. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Of The Stillwater Tragedy This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Stillwater Tragedy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich Chapter 25 The next morning Mr. Slocum did not make his appearance in the marble yard. His half simulated in disposition of the previous night had turned into a genuine headache of which he perhaps willingly availed himself to remain in his room, for he had no desire to see Richard Chakford that day. It was an hour before noon. Up to that moment Richard had been engaged in reading and replying to the letters received by the morning's mail, a duty which usually failed to Mr. Slocum. As Richard stepped from the office into the yard, a small boy thrust a note into his hand and then stood off a short distance, tranquilly boring with one toe in the loose gravel and apparently waiting for an answer. Chakford hastily ran his eye over the paper and turning towards the boy said a little impatiently, Tell him I will come at once. There was another person in Stillwater that forenoon whose agitation was scarcely less than Mr. Slocum's, though it greatly differed from it in quality. Mr. Slocum was alive to his fingertips with dismay. Lawyer Perkins was boiling over with indignation. It was a complex indignation in which astonishment and incredulity were nicely blended with a cordial detestation of Mr. Taggett and vague promptings to inflict some physical injury on Justice Bemis, that he, Melanchthon Perkins, the confidential legal adviser and personal friend of the late Lemuel Chakford, should have been kept for two weeks in profound ignorance of proceeding so nearly touching his lamented client. The explosion of the old lawyer's wrath was so unexpected that Justice Bemis, who had dropped in to make the disclosures and talk the matter over informally, clutched at his broad-brim panama hat and precipitately retreated from the office. Mr. Perkins walked up and down the worn green druget of his private room for half an hour afterwards, collecting himself, and then dispatched a hurried note to Richard Chakford, requesting an instant interview with him at his lawyer Perkins' chambers. When, some ten minutes subsequently, Richard entered the low-studded square room, darkened with faded Maureen curtains, and filled with a stale odor of law-calf, Mr. Perkins was seated at his desk, and engaged in transferring certain imposing red-sealed documents to a green baiz satchel which he held between his knees. He had regained his equanimity, his features were their usual expression of judicial severity, nothing denoted his recent discomposure, except perhaps an additional wantonness in the stringy black hair falling over the high forehead, that pallid high forehead which always bore the look of being covered with cold perspiration. Mr. Chakford, said lawyer Perkins, suspending his operations a second as he saluted the young man, I suppose I have done an irregular thing in sending for you, but I did not see any other course open to me. I have been your cousin's attorney for over twenty-five years, and I have a great regard for you personally. That must justify the step I am taking. The regard is mutual, I am sure, returned Richard, rather surprised by this friendly overture, for his acquaintance with the lawyer had been of the slightest, though it had extended over many years. My cousin had very few friends, and I earnestly desire to have them mine. If I were in any trouble, there is no one to whom I would come as unhesitatingly as to you. But you are in trouble. Yes, my cousin's death was very distressing. I do not mean that. Mr. Perkins paused a full moment. The district attorney has suddenly taken a deep interest in the case, and there is to be a rigorous overhauling of the facts. I am afraid it is going to be very unpleasant for you, Mr. Chakford. How could it be otherwise? asked Richard tranquilly. Lawyer Perkins fixed his black eyes on him. Then you fully understand the situation and can explain everything? I wish I could. Unfortunately, I can explain nothing. I don't clearly see why I have been summoned to attend as a witness at the investigation, to be held today in Justice Bemis's office. You are unacquainted with any special reason why your testimony is wanted. I cannot conceive why it should be required. I gave my evidence at the time of the inquest, and have nothing to add to it. Strictly speaking, I have had of late years no relations with my cousin. During the last eighteen months we have spoken together but once. Have you had any conversation on this subject with Mr. Slocum since your return from New York? No, I have had no opportunity. I was busy all day yesterday. He was ill in the evening, and is still confined to his room. Mr. Perkins was manifestly embarrassed. That is unfortunate, he said, laying the bag on the desk. I wish you had talked with Mr. Slocum. Of course you were taken into the secret of Taggitt's presence in the marble yard. Oh yes, that was all arranged before I left home. You don't know the results of that manoeuvre? There were no results. On the contrary, Taggitt claims to have made very important discoveries. Indeed, why was I not told? I can't quite comprehend Mr. Slocum's silence. What has Taggitt discovered? Several things upon which he builds the gravest suspicions. Against whom? Against you. Against me, cried Richard. Recoiling. The action was one altogether of natural amazement and convinced Mr. Perkins, who had keenly watched the effect of his announcement, that young Shackford was being very hardly used. Justice Bemis had given Mr. Perkins only a brief outline of the facts, and had rarely touched on details when the old lawyer's anger had put an end to the conversation. His disgust at having been left out in the cold, though he was in no professional way, concerned in the task of discovering the murderer of Lemuel Shackford, had caused lawyer Perkins instantly to repudiate Mr. Taggitt's action. Taggitt is a low, intriguing fellow, he had said to Justice Bemis. Taggitt is a fraud! Young Shackford's ingenious manner now confirmed Mr. Perkins in that belief. Richard recovered himself in a second or two. Why did not Mr. Slocum mention these suspicions to me, he demanded? Perhaps he found it difficult to do so. Why should he find it difficult? Suppose he believed them. But he could not believe them, whatever they are. Well then, suppose he was not had liberty to speak. It seems that you are, Mr. Perkins, and you owe it to me to be explicit. What does Taggitt suspect? Lawyer Perkins brooded a while before replying. His practice was of a miscellaneous sort, confined in the main to what is technically termed office practice. Though he was frequently engaged in small cases of assault and battery, he could scarcely escape that in still water. He had never conducted an important criminal case. But when Lawyer Perkins looked up from his brief reverie, he had fully resolved to undertake the defense of Richard Shackford. I will tell you what Taggitt suspects, he said slowly. If you will allow me to tell you in my own way, I must ask a number of questions. Richard gave a half impatient nod of assent. Where were you on the night of the murder, inquired Lawyer Perkins after a slight pause? I spent the evening at the Slocums until ten o'clock, then I went home, but not directly. It was moonlight, and I walked about, perhaps for an hour. Did you meet anyone? Not that I recollect, I walked out of town on the turnpike. When you returned to your boarding-house, did you meet anyone? No, I let myself in with a pass-key. The family had retired, with the exception of Mr. Pinkham. Then you saw him. No, but I heard him. He was playing on the flute at his chamber window, or near it. He always plays on the flute when he can't sleep. What o'clock was that? It must have been after eleven. Your stroll was confined to the end of town most remote from Welch's Court? Yes, I cruised around on the outskirts. I wish you had spoken with somebody that night. The streets were deserted. I wasn't likely to meet persons on the turnpike. However, someone may have seen you without your knowing it. Yes, said Richard Curtley. He was growing restive under these interrogations, the drift of which was plain enough to be disagreeable. Moreover, Mr. Perkins had insensibly assumed the tone and air of a council cross-examining a witness on the other side. This nocturnal cruise, whose direction and duration were known only to Young Shackford, struck lawyer Perkins unpleasantly. He meditated a moment before putting the next question. Were you on good terms? I mean, fairly good terms, with your cousin. No, said Richard. But the fault was not mine. He never liked me. As a child I annoyed him, I suppose, and when I grew up I offended him by running away to sea. My mortal offence, however, was accepting a situation in Slocum's yard. I have been in my cousin's house only twice in three years. When was the last time? A day or two previous to the strike. As you were not in the habit of visiting the house, you must have had some purpose in going there. What was the occasion? Richard hung his head thoughtfully. I went there to talk over family matters, to inform him of my intended marriage to Margaret Slocum. I wanted his goodwill and support. Mr. Slocum had offered to take me into the business. I thought perhaps my cousin, Emile, seeing how prosperous I was, would be more friendly to me. Did you wish him to lend you capital? I didn't expect or wish him to, but there was some question of that. And he refused. Rather brutally, if I may say so now. Was there a quarrel? Richard hesitated. Of course I don't press you, said Mr. Perkins with some stiffness. You are not on the witness stand. I began to think I was. In the prisoner's dock, answered Richard, smiling ruefully. However, I have nothing to conceal. I hesitated to reply to you, because it was painful for me to reflect that the last time I saw my cousin, we parted in anger. He charged me with attempting to overreach him, and I left the house in indignation. That was the last time you saw him? The last time I saw him alive. Was there any communication between you two after that? No. None, whatever. None. Are you quite positive? As positive that I can be, that I live and have my senses. Lawyer Perkins pulled a black strand of hair over his forehead, and remained silent for nearly a minute. Mr. Shackford, are you sure that your cousin did not write a note to you on the Monday preceding the night of his death? He may have written a dozen for all I know. I only know that I never received a note or a letter from him in the whole course of my life. Then how do you account for the letter which has been found in your rooms in Lime Street, a letter addressed to you by Lemuel Shackford, and requesting you to call at his house on that fatal Tuesday night? I don't know anything about it, stammered Richard. There is no such paper. It was in this office less than an hour ago, said Lawyer Perkins sternly. It was brought here for me to identify Lemuel Shackford's handwriting. Justice Bemis has that paper. Justice Bemis has it, exclaimed Richard. I have nothing more to say, observed Lawyer Perkins, reaching out his hand towards the green bag as a sign that the interview was ended. There are other points I wish to have some light thrown on, but I have gone far enough to see that it is useless. What more is there, demanded Richard, in a voice that seemed to come through a fog? I insist on knowing. You suspect me of my cousin's murder? Mr. Taggart does. And you? I am speaking of Mr. Taggart. Well, go on, speak of him, said Richard desperately. What else has he discovered? Mr. Perkins wheeled his chair round until he faced the young man. He has discovered in your workshop a chisel with a peculiar break in the edge, a deep notch in the middle of the bevel. With that chisel Lemuel Shackford was killed. Richard gave a perceptible start and put his hand to his head, as if a sudden confused memory had set the temples throbbing. A full box of safety matches, continued Mr. Perkins, in a cold measured voice as though he were demonstrating a mathematical problem. Contains one hundred matches. Mr. Taggart has discovered a box that contains only ninety-nine. The missing match was used that night in Welch's court. Richard stared at him blankly. What can I say, he gasped. Say nothing to me, returned lawyer Perkins, hastily thrusting a handful of loose papers into the open throat of the green bag, which he garred at an instant afterwards with a thick black cord, then he rose flurriedly from the chair. I shall have to leave you, he said. I've an appointment at the surrogates. And lawyer Perkins passed stiffly from the apartment. Richard lingered a moment alone in the room, with his chin resting on his breast. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 There was a fire in Richard's temples as he reeled out of lawyer Perkins' office. It was now twelve o'clock, and the streets were thronged with the motley population, disgorged by the various mills and workshops. Richard felt that every eye was upon him. He was conscious of something wild in his aspect that must needs attract the attention of the passersby. At each step he half expected the levelling of some accusing finger. The pitiless sunshine seemed to single him out and stream upon him like a calcium light. It was intolerable. He must get away from this jostling crowd, this babble of voices. What should he do? Where should he go? To return to the yard and face the workman was not to be thought of. If he went to his lodgings he would be called to dinner and have to listen to the inane prattle of the school master. That would be even more intolerable than this garish daylight, and these careless squads of men and women who paused in the midst of their laugh to turn and stare. Was there no spot in still water where a broken man could hide himself long enough to collect his senses? With his hands thrust convulsively into the pockets of his sack-coat, Richard turned at a narrow passageway, fringing the rear of some warehouses. As he hurried along aimlessly, his fingers encountered something in one of his pockets. It was the key of a new lock which had been put on the scullery door of the house in Welch's court. Richard's heart gave a quick throb. There, at least, was a temporary refuge. He would go there and wait until it was time for him to surrender himself to the officers. It appeared to Richard that he was nearly a year reaching the little backyard of the lonely house. He slipped into the scullery and locked the door, wondering if his movements had been observed since he quitted the main street. Here he drew a long breath and looked around him. Then he began wandering restlessly through the rooms, of which there were five or six on the ground floor. The furniture, the carpets, and all the sordid fixtures of the house were just as Richard had known them in his childhood. Everything was unchanged, even to the faded peacock feather stuck over the pallor-looking glass. As he regarded the familiar objects and breathed the snuffy atmosphere peculiar to the place, the past rose so vividly before him that he would scarcely have been startled if a lean, gray old man had suddenly appeared in one of the doorways. On a peg in the front hall hung his cousin's napless beaver hat, satirically ready to be put on. In the kitchen closet a pair of ancient shoes, worn down at the heel and with taps on the toe, had all the air of intending to step forth. The shoes had been carefully blacked, but a thin skin of mould had gathered over them. They looked like Lumiere Shackford. They had taken a position habitual with him. Richard was struck by this subtle irony which lay in these inanimate things, that a man's hat should outlast the man and have a jaunty expression of triumph, that a dead man's shoes should mimic him. The tall eight-day clock on the landing had run down. It had stopped at twelve and it now stood with solemnly uplifted finger, as if imposing silence on those small, unconsidered noises which commonly creep out like mice only at midnight. The house was full of such stealthy sounds. The stairs creaked at intervals mysteriously, as if under the weight of some heavy person ascending. Now and then the woodwork stretched itself with a snap, as though it had grown stiff in the joints with remaining so long in one position. At times there were muffled reverberations of footfalls on the flooring overhead. Richard had a curious consciousness of not being alone, but of moving in the midst of an invisible throng of persons who elbowed him softly and breathed in his face, and vaguely impressed themselves upon him as being former occupants of the premises. This populous solitude, this silence with its busy interruptions, grew insupportable as he passed from room to room. One chamber he did not enter, the chamber in which his cousin's body was found that Wednesday morning. In Richard's imagination it was still lying there, white and piteous, by the hearth. He paused at the threshold and glanced in, then turned abruptly and mounted the staircase. Ungaining his old apartment in the gable, Richard seated himself on the edge of the cot-bed. His shoulders sagged down, and a stupefied expression settled upon his face, but his brain was in a tumult. His own identity was become a matter of doubt to him. Was he the same Richard Chakford who had found life so sweet when he awoke that morning? It must have been some other person who had sat by a window in the sunrise thinking of Margaret Slocum's love, some Richard Chakford with unstained hands. This one was accused of murdering his kinsmen, the weapon with which he had done it, the very match he had used to light him in the deed, were known. The victim himself had written out the accusation in black and white. Richard's brain reeled as he tried to fix his thought on Lemuel Chakford's letter. That letter? Where had it been all this while, and how did it come into tag its possession? Only one thing was clear to Richard in his inextricable confusion. He was not going to be able to prove his innocence. He was a doomed man, and within the hour his shame would be published to the world. Roland Slocum and lawyer Perkins had already condemned him. And Margaret would condemn him when she knew all, for it was evident that up to last evening she had not been told. How did it happen that these overwhelming proofs had rolled themselves up against him? What malign influences were these at work, hurrying him on to destruction and not leaving a single loophole of escape? Who would believe the story of his innocent ramble on the turnpike that Tuesday night? Who could doubt that he had gone directly from Slocum's to Welch's court, and then crept home red-handed through the deserted streets? Richard heard the steam whistles recalling the operatives to work, and dimly understood it was one o'clock, but after that he paid no attention to the lapse of time. It was an hour later, perhaps two hours, Richard could not tell, when he roused himself from his stupor and descending the stairs passed through the kitchen into the scullery. There he halted and leaned against the sink, irresolute as though his purpose, if he had had a purpose, were escaping him. He stood, with his eyes resting listlessly on a barrel in the further corner of the apartment, it was a heavy-hooped wine-cask in which Lemuel Shackford had been want to keep his winter supply of salted meat. Suddenly Richard started forward with an inarticulate cry, and at the same instant there came a loud knocking at the door behind him. The sound reverberated through the empty house, filling the place with awful echoes, like those knocks at the gate of Macbeth's castle, the night of Duncan's murder. Richard stood petrified for a second, then he hastily turned the key in the lock, and Mr. Taggott stepped into the scullery. The two men exchanged swift glances, the bewildered air of a moment before had passed from Richard, the dullness had faded out of his eyes, leaving them the clear, alert expression they ordinarily wore. He was self-possessed, but the effort his self-possession cost him was obvious. There was a something in his face, a dilation of the nostril, a curve of the underlip, which put Mr. Taggott very much on his guard. Mr. Taggott was the first to speak. I've a disagreeable mission here, he said slowly, with his hand remaining on the latch of the door, which he had closed on entering. I have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Shackford. Stop a moment, said Richard, with a glow in his eyes. I have something to say. I advise you not to make any statement. I understand my position perfectly, Mr. Taggott, and I shall disregard the advice. After you have answered me one or two questions, I shall be quite at your service. If you insist, then? You were present at the examination of Thomas Blufton and William Durgin, were you not? I was. You recollect William Durgin's testimony most distinctly. He stated that the stains on his clothes were from a certain barrel, the head of which had been freshly painted red. I remember. Mr. Taggott, the head of that barrel, was painted blue.