IV

That afternoon Anthony had his chest and other baggage transferred to

the Half Moon, which was in Chestnut Street, opposite the state-house.

Toward evening he began to dress for his visit to Dr. King; through

the window of his room, and, again, through the high-shouldered arches

at each side of the old building across the way, he caught specks of

green among the flags; stout, gray Quakers paced slowly by, on their

ways from their places of business at the waterside to the green open

spaces, in the neighborhood of Eighth Street.

Anthony had a taste for dress, and on this occasion was exceedingly

careful. His tall, long-napped beaver was brushed and "laid"; his

neck-cloth, stiff with starch,--a new mode among the young men of

the time,--caught him tightly under the ears. His square-skirted,

high-collared coat of Lincoln green had gilt buttons on the breast

and sleeves; his waistcoat was of silk and fitted snugly; his

pantaloons--an article of wear flung before the world by the French

Revolution--were strapped tightly down under his varnished boots. Older

men were still holding to knee shorts, worsted stockings, and buckled

shoes; some continued to powder their hair; but progressive youth had

been caught up by the rush of the revolution, and their thoughts seemed

set not only against old forms in government but in dress as well.

There was a public room at the Half Moon, and when Anthony descended he

turned into it. The floor was sanded, and there were settles and chairs

arranged comfortably about; a fire of chestnut knots crackled in a wide

fireplace; upon pegs in the wall hung traveling-coats, saddle-bags,

and whips; people lounged about and drowsed, or talked in little

groups, or read the scant journals by the light of whale-oil lamps. The

young man stood in the doorway and searched the room for those whom

he hoped to see; but he was disappointed. Then he walked its length,

slowly, examining every one present. No, the old Frenchman, and--was

it his daughter?--of the New York packet, were not there. He then went

into the room on the opposite side of the passage, where the tables

were laid for the tavern's hearty supper; but it was too early; none

among the guests had yet considered food.

There was a short man with a jolly red face seated upon a bench in the

passage; he wore a waterproof hat and held a whip between his knees.

Anthony nodded to him, and the round face at once took on the look of a

rosy moon.

"The inn seems very well filled," said Anthony.

"It always is," the red-faced man replied. And then, "Are you a

stranger in the city, sir?"

"Practically so," said Anthony.

The stout man spoke in a low tone of confidence.

"Senators make this their place of entertainment," he told Anthony. "A

justice of the Supreme Court is now drinking in the bar."

"A deal of travel halts here, I'd say," hinted Anthony.

"You say truth, then. I drive a-many here myself; but the public

coaches also make it a place of call."

"The sloops and schooners from up and down the river also bring many

patrons?" said Anthony.

"The New York packet brought two to-day," said the red-faced man. "An

elderly gentleman and his daughter. They are French, I would say. Name

of Lafargue. I drove them to Mrs. Craigie's a while ago."

"Then they have left the inn!" exclaimed Anthony.

"For a little space only." The man took out a thick watch of silver

and consulted it carefully. "In some hours more," said he, "I shall be

going after them."

The brief autumn twilight was settling into dark when Anthony left the

tavern. He trudged toward Front Street at a good pace; the Trenton

stage was midway in the block above Mulberry Street, and he had no

trouble in finding the house of Dr. King--a wide, well-kept building

of red brick with white stone steps and hitching-post, and black,

varnished rails.

Dr. King greeted him cordially and led him into a thickly carpeted

room, with Eastern hangings, and a chandelier, glittering with a score

of wax-lights. Mrs. King was a tall woman, stately, with a fine-cut

face and an ease of manner not usual with women of the young republic.

"I knew your mother," she told Anthony. "A beautiful, dark creature,

who loved your father." She searched his face with her quiet eyes.

"No," she said, "you don't look in the least like her. You resemble

your grandfather; you have his way of holding your head; you have the

same strong-looking body, and the same long face." Anthony smiled at

this, and she added quickly: "I was wrong; _that_ is your mother's; and

I'm very glad to see it. It's a fine thing to be a man like old Rufus

Stevens; but, at the same time, a little softness does not come amiss."

There were some others in the room, and she led Anthony forward.

"Mr. Anthony Stevens," she said, "a nephew of Charles." To Anthony she

added: "Mr. Whitaker, and Mr. Sparhawk."

Both these gentlemen arose and shook Anthony by the hand. Whitaker was

about his own age, very handsome, with a great head of curling hair and

snappy dark eyes. He was something of a dandy; his fine neck-cloth was

of amazing height and stiffness; his buckskin pantaloons were so tight

about the knees that one wondered how he moved; his claret-colored coat

had a huge roll to both collar and lapels, and his waistcoat was of

corded silk, with wide flaps over the pockets.

"It's a great pleasure to see you," said this young gentleman,

examining Anthony with a careful and rather approving eye. "Didn't know

Stevens had a nephew. Don't think I ever heard him say."

Sparhawk was about sixty, a small, perky man, in knee shorts, and with

white powder dusted into his hair. He was dry of manner, with a shrewd,

yet kindly, eye; there was no man in the port held in higher esteem

among merchants. When there was a question of insurances, one went to

Sparhawk; and the adjustments he made were always reckoned fair and

worthy, and the best that could be done for all concerned.

"You would be Robert's son," said he. "I recall you well as a boy. A

very active boy," to the others. "Given to such things as diving from

the rigging of any ship in the docks he managed to get aboard of."

When they had settled down once more, Whitaker crossed his tightly clad

legs and said:

"You'll not like it here. It's a devil of a place, I find. Since I came

back I can think of nothing but getting away again."

Mrs. King laughed amusedly.

"I'm afraid, Tom," she said, "they spoiled you by keeping you so long

in foreign parts."

"They opened my eyes," returned Whitaker. "They gave me some chance to

see what the world is like."

"I have been a matter of six voyages," said Sparhawk, in his precise

way. "And I have been a general agent in as many ports from time to

time. And this I have learned: the ports of the world are not _the_

world."

"Very well," said Whitaker, composedly. "Whatever they are, I like

them. Calcutta, now!" said he, to Anthony. "There's a place for you!

Were you ever in Calcutta?"

"No," said Anthony.

"You should go there," said the other. "You should, by all means. It's

an astonishing place. I was there three months--for Stevens; you never

put your eyes on such a cargo as I stowed into the _Sea Mew_. Riches

was no name for it. It was prodigious. Unfortunate she went down,

though. Too bad."

"She was lost, then?" said Anthony.

"Yes; never heard of her after the day she sailed for home. Great pity.

She was a magnificent ship; and the loss was murderous to the insurance

people."

"You had more misfortunes than that, had you not?" said Sparhawk. "Was

there not a Stevens vessel, out of Lisbon for Liverpool, carrying ivory

and wine? The _Two Brothers_, I think."

Whitaker wrinkled his brows.

"Yes," said he. "The _Two Brothers_. A fairly lucky ship, too. Quick

voyages and good returns. I went in her to Lisbon with a mixed cargo

from the Malayan ports, just after the _Sea Mew_ sailed. I expected

to come home in her, but things got tangled, somehow; they took in

the Liverpool merchandise, and I was sent off to Brest to see to some

matters there. Devilish odd how things come about, isn't it? There's no

doubt but the thing saved my life. If I hadn't been sent there I'd have

gone down with the ship. But who sent me, I don't know. The word was

given in an indirect way. I tried to trace it afterwards; but it seems

it was all a mistake; no one was responsible."

Sparhawk pursed his lips and regarded Whitaker interestedly; and then,

after a moment, he fell to calculating.

"There was a matter of twelve thousand English pounds went down in the

_Two Brothers_," said he, striking a total; "and in the _Sea Mew_ I

think it was more."

"It was much more," admitted Whitaker. "I would say twice as much." He

shook his head of hair, and looked somewhat bewildered. "It was a deal

of money to scatter over the bottom of the sea," said he. "I'm glad I

had nothing to do with it."

Anthony studied the young dandy. He had an engaging appearance; and

there was about him that superficial air of knowing that usually comes

of experiences lightly felt. His mouth was pleasant, but it had little

resolution; his eyes were quick, but there was no promise that they saw

anything below the surface.

But as Anthony's glance went to Sparhawk he saw something greatly

different. Here was resolution enough for twenty; here was a quiet,

persevering mind, a man whose interest was plainly in those things not

easily seen. And this matter of the sunken ships seemed to engage him

shrewdly; it seemed to Anthony it must be a subject that he'd occasion

to consider more than once before.

"From Brest I think you came home," said Sparhawk.

"Yes," said Whitaker. "But my experience there was none of the

pleasantest. I delivered certain papers to the house's representative,

Lafargue, by name, and they occasioned a great scurrying of one kind

or another, though I never knew why." Sparhawk smiled primly, and

Whitaker, who noticed it, looked annoyed. "It seems to me," he went on

resentfully, "when a man is entrusted with a firm's business, there

should be no withholding of any sort. No, I'll confess I didn't enjoy

Brest overmuch."

"Did you say the representative at that port was named Lafargue?" asked

Anthony, with interest.

"Yes, an oldish man, with quite a formidable nose, and an eye that

would bore you through and through. And that reminds me," added the

dandy, "who should I run across to-day at the coffee-house but this

same gentleman. I have no notion what brings him to America; I talked

with him for some moments, but he can be very reticent when he so

desires. I learned that at Brest."

Dinner-parties of that day were not managed with the same care as in

these. They were usually an indulgence of men, who ate liberally and

drank heavily. Cookery was a thing given some attention, though table

arrangements were simplicity itself. But Dr. King had a taste for

such things; also, he had the generous nature that prompts frequent

entertainment, and the large wealth that makes it possible.

Anthony found the table laid with fine napery; the silver and glass and

delicate ware shone handsomely under the carefully set candle-light.

As was customary, all the dishes were placed upon the table at the one

time, and each guest was expected to help his neighbor.

There were a fragrant soup of leeks, and the head and shoulders of

a fine cod, with Madeira. A brace of plump, black ducks lay upon a

long dish; there were roasted venison, deep vessels of parsnips, and

celery, and jelly in cunning molds. A fine, full-flavored Burgundy was

drunk with the game. Upon a huge platter was a turkey poult, brown and

full-breasted, ringed by roasted oysters and rice-patties; wherever a

vacant place showed itself upon the cloth were placed dishes of marrow

pudding, cherry-tarts, and pippins, stewed, and thick with cream.

It was perhaps nine o'clock when Sparhawk left; and a little later

Whitaker followed him. After a space Mrs. King left the doctor and

Anthony together at the table with a bottle between them, and each

drawing at a long-stemmed pipe. Anthony said:

"I've always understood the house of Rufus Stevens' Sons to be

wide-flung, but, somehow, I'm continually being surprised at the

evidences of it."

A soft-footed black servant came in, snuffed the candles, put a fresh

log upon the fire, and disappeared.

"And any recollections I have of my uncle," added Anthony, "are based

on impressions carried away with me as a boy."

Dr. King smiled, but at the same time there was a grave look in his

eyes.

"Upon the whole," said he, "those things might be a very fair base upon

which to form a judgment of him. For if there ever has been a man who

took what may be called the spirit of boyhood into his after life it is

your uncle."

Anthony looked at him questioningly, and the doctor went on.

"Your father was always the thoughtful one, as a lad; I remember that

quite well. His sums were always done methodically; his maps were drawn

with care. Charles was your slap-dash fellow. A great reader, but of

romances, of obscure histories, of the lives of men whose doings, as

set down, do not often meet the common eye. Your father, as a boy,

formed a plan for his work and went through with it, conscientiously.

Charles loved to browse and dream; and then his mind would suddenly

leap into life, and carry out some extraordinary idea. He does this

still."

"What you are telling me does not make a usual equipment for a

merchant," said Anthony.

"No," replied Dr. King. "And it is an equipment that has made many a

circumspect dealer stand aghast. But, in spite of his seeming lack of

qualifications as a merchant, Charles is a magnificent one. He detests

plodding; he hates detail; with routine he will have nothing to do. I

doubt if any one has ever seen him foot up a column of figures or turn

to a ledger for a point of information; yet no man anywhere is more

possessed of the spirit of commerce. But it is commerce as a pageant,

as a spectacle, a wide, spirited vision, rich with color, alive with

movement, remarkable with discovery. There is nothing of the huckster

in Charles; he is no mere chafferer or trafficker in commodities. In

his mind ships are not dull things of oak, stuffed with cargo; they are

the laden argosies of the world, crossing the seven seas, their sails

filled with glory."

Anthony's eyes shone.

"Why," said he, "I think I understand that."

"The rich ports of history are the most frequent stopping-places of

his mind," proceeded Dr. King. "Even as a schoolboy this was so.

While other lads took delight in the doings of the military heroes

of antiquity, Charles took to sea in the galleys of the Phenician

merchants, searching out new lands, new peoples, new trade. While the

others thrilled with the story of Thermopylæ, his gaze was fixed upon

Tyre, with its great docks, its famed factories of purple, its crowding

ships. His companions listened with pleasure to the voice of Cato

pronouncing the doom of Carthage in the Roman senate; but Charles saw

only the passing of a wondrous people, who had carried commerce to a

point never previously touched in history. Venice he looked upon with

almost idolatry; here the manufacturer, the merchant, the trader had

lifted themselves to the places of kings; the hardy enterprise of the

Genoese seafarers gained his unbounded admiration, and he never tired

talking of them. But Prince Henry of Portugal was his hero; from amid

the batterings of a war that had gone on for many generations, he saw

this mind arise and fill with its dream of the rich regions beyond

Sahara. While other boys of his age were hurry-skurrying through some

rough, healthful sport, Charles, with his lame foot, would sit silent;

in his mind he would enter the lonely tower at Cape St. Vincent, as

the prince had so often done; and while the gray sea threw itself

against the desolate headland he'd brood upon its avenues and the

possibility of traversing them to India, the land of his desire."

"Well," said Anthony, as he fired the tobacco in his pipe at one of the

candles. "I now see the foundation of some of the things I've heard

said of him."

"These dreams of his," said Dr. King, "he has carried with him through

life. He does not plot nor contrive in his business; things rush upon

him like inspirations. His ships are the stanchest, the fleetest, and

have the greatest capacity of any in the port; his suggestions to the

builders made them so, though many a head was shaken over them before

the sea and the wind proved his word. These same ships have sailed on

many a voyage which crafty mariners looked upon as folly; but Charles

Stevens has a way of turning bad into good, and causing avoided places

to teem with riches."

"I find myself with a great desire to meet my uncle," said Anthony,

with a smile. "Christopher Dent says you are upon intimate terms with

him, and yet you talk of his doings as though he were a hero of legend.

It is only a very remarkable man who can inspire a thing like that."

The physician looked at the young man through the haze of curling

tobacco smoke that drifted between them; and there was a shadow upon

his face.

"What I have told you," said he, "are the facts as a good many know

them. But, if necessary, I could speak of other things of which only

little is known, and that to a very few."

Once more the cringing figure of Magruder came into Anthony's mind, the

gray of fear in his mean face, and unintelligible words upon his lips.

"These things," said Anthony to the doctor, "would, I suppose, not be

so favorable as the others?"

"No," said Dr. King. He sat looking at Anthony steadily for a space;

then he added, "How long do you mean to remain in the city?"

"I don't know. It will, I think, altogether depend upon circumstances."

Dr. King nodded. His eyes were still upon the young man, a look of

speculation in them. He studied the well-set head, the clear eye, the

long face, with its strong jaw, so like that of old Rufus. His glance

took in the supple power of the body buttoned so tightly into the coat

of Lincoln green, and the strong, ready hands that rested upon the arms

of his chair.

"You could, if you would, remain here?" said he.

"I could."

Dr. King put down his pipe and leaned across the table.

"You never saw me before to-day," said he; "but I am your friend. I am

your uncle's friend." He paused a moment, and then went on: "Do not go

away. Stay here. You may be able to do nothing; and, then again, you

may be able to do a great deal."

"What?" demanded Anthony, and the out-thrust chin seemed to point at

the man leaning toward him.

Dr. King settled back into his chair; the aggressive chin, the stubborn

frown knotted between Anthony's eyes seemed to bring him to a sudden

decision.

"If you are shrewd," said the doctor, "you may be able to prevent great

losses upon land and sea. If you have courage you may stop death itself

as it enters your uncle's house."

"What losses threaten his goods?" asked Anthony. "What hand is lifted

against his life?"

"I know there have been losses," said Dr. King, "and instinct tells

me there is danger. But I know nothing definite; I could not point to

anything; I could not make an accusation that would stand reasoning

over. And yet I am confident as I am that I'm speaking to you that you

are needed at Rufus Stevens' Sons. Take the place that's yours in the

counting-room; keep your eyes open; tell no one why you are there--_no

one_, mind you; and, who knows? you may come to the bottom of a

detestable state of affairs."

"Then there is no immediate danger?"

"No."

Anthony pondered, pressing the black ash into the pipe bowl with his

forefinger.

"I will stay," said he, at last.

V

That night was not a very comfortable one for Anthony. He lay awake for

a long time, his straight-forward mind laboring with the facts of the

day; when he did finally drop off, his sleep was not a deep one; it was

thronged with grotesque images, and incidents that caricatured what he

had seen and heard.

Once he awoke. It was a moon-lit night; through the window he could

see the bell swinging in the tower across the way; he reasoned that it

had just done striking, and the blows had awakened him. He tried to

see the hour by his watch, but could not; so he arose and took it to

the window. It was one o'clock. He stood moodily looking down into the

street so silvered and quiet; from somewhere, a long way off, came the

rumble of wheels and the notes of a coach horn; and he shivered as he

thought of the harassed passengers, beginning a journey in the thin

chill of the night.

He was about to turn from the window when a movement caught his eye

in the shadow cast by the tower; it was a dim, leisurely movement,

and well toward the edge, where the shadow met the moonlight sharply.

Almost at once he saw its nature; the figures of two men came into the

light and paused. They seemed on the point of separating, and the pause

was for a parting word. They shook hands with the quick, hard clutch of

persons well satisfied, and each turned away. But one, he who had faced

eastward in the direction of the river, suddenly paused.

There was something familiar to Anthony in the gesture that stopped

the other man; and the two joined once more in talk. However, it was

but for a moment. The man with the familiar gesture seemed to ask a

question, which the other answered, and in so doing lifted his hand

and pointed at Anthony's window. The first man threw back his head; a

ringing laugh broke the stillness, and Anthony at once recognized him;

it was the man with the saddle-bags who had come ashore that morning

from the New York packet.

Anthony watched the two separate; the one held steadily toward the

river; the other crossed the street toward the inn; and a moment later

Anthony heard the outer door open and close. He stood for a moment in

the center of the floor and pondered; there was something in the scene

he had just witnessed which started a cold shuddering in his blood--the

same feeling he'd experienced on many a night as the wilderness closed

around him, and he knew the shadows were peopled with gliding forms,

each bearing a weapon that might let out his life.

But this was civilization! This was the capital city of the nation!

The two men may have been cronies, detained somewhere by the flavor of

a particular bottle. How was he to be sure that it was his window at

which the man who had entered the inn had pointed? There were other

windows; it may have been one of those. But, even though it had been

his, what did it signify? A hundred reasons, each entirely innocent,

might account for the gesture. The fancy that the thing held a danger

amused his reason; but still the creeping continued in his blood, and

instinct rang its warning in his pulse. He went to his chest, threw

open the lid, and took out a heavy, knotted walking-stick, iron-shod

and formidable. He was balancing this in his hand and regarding it

from under frowning brows when he caught the sound of a light foot in

the hall; it paused at his door; his head went up, and, clutching the

cudgel, he stood listening.

The latch lifted softly; there was an instant's pause, and then the

door began to push inward. Anthony saw a young man with a tall hat,

a fashionably cut coat, with metal buttons, small-clothes, and shoes

that had silver buckles. He carried himself very erect and with perfect

composure. Closing the door after him, he advanced to the bedside, and

took a chair. It was plain that in the uncertain light of the room, to

which his eyes were not accustomed, he fancied the bed occupied, for he

bent his head forward and addressed it.

"Now," said he, "if you'll be good enough to wake up, I'll have a few

important words with you."

There was a pause, as he waited for the stirring of the sleeper; none

followed, and he reached out his hand. As it met with only empty

sheets, he exclaimed impatiently; and then out of the semi-darkness

came the voice of Anthony.

"Perhaps," said he, "a little candle-light might improve matters."

"Oh," said the intruder, turning with perfect composure toward the

sound, "so you are there? I took it for granted that at this hour you'd

be abed."

Anthony struck a light and touched it to the wick of a candle; then,

the knotted stick in his hand, he stood glowering at his visitor.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said the man. He placed his tall hat upon

a table, and seemed quite at his ease. "Also," and he nodded at the

cudgel, "I'm quite mortified to have given you alarm."

"You need not disturb yourself about that," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm

accustomed to alarms, and also to what follows after." Then, with the

sudden cut to his voice which always told of a rising temper, "What the

devil do you mean by easing yourself into my room, like this?"

"Sit down," said the man, unruffled. "And let us talk."

"I warn you," said Anthony sharply, "that that won't do. I will not

sit down, and I will have no talk with you except upon one subject.

What are you doing here?"

The man crossed one leg upon the other and examined Anthony in the

candle-light.

"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts

too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go

quietly back to--is it New Orleans?"

There was something very clear in the voice; it was the crisp utterance

of a man who knew his own mind, and had complete confidence in what he

said. Anthony, as he looked at him, saw that he had a slim, elegant

figure, that his face was of classic regularity; but there was a cold

assurance in the eyes and a sneer about the lips.

"Once more," said Anthony, "what are you doing here?" He took a step

forward, and his right hand closed about the handle of the stick.

"Jocular reflections upon my temper, and impertinent advice, are not

answers. Come, now!"

The intruder smiled, easily.

"I suppose," said he, "you are one who prides himself upon sticking to

a point. It's a good quality, enough; but one should never permit such

a thing to blind one to matters of more interest." He looked at Anthony

with the same easy smile, and through it were the sneer and the cold

confidence of the eyes. "This port is no place for you," he said. "Be

advised. There is a ship sailing to-morrow for Havana; from there to

New Orleans is no distance at all."

Anthony waited for no more. Like a wolf he was upon the other and had

hauled him to his feet; then the iron-shod stick lashed out, showering

blows upon the man's head and shoulders. Overwhelmed by the suddenness

of the attack, the intruder fell back against the wall; Anthony threw

open the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck, much as one might

an offending cur, and, without a word, pitched him into the hall, and

his hat after him and slammed the door. Then he stood his weapon in a

corner, put out the candle, got back into bed and fell instantly asleep.

Quite early in the morning he arose; he descended the stairs briskly,

his mind fully made up as to what he should do. He ate his breakfast

of hot eggs, and cold sliced ham, and breast of fowl; and he drank his

tea. Then he took up the knotted stick and went stumping determinedly

through the bar on his way to the street.

"Mr. Stevens!"

It was the landlord who hailed him, a man with a paunch of fine

proportions, and the face of a serious cherub. Anthony stopped.

"Last night," said the host solemnly, "you engaged in an altercation. I

do not know the merits of the case, sir, but Mr. Tarrant will, I think,

send some one during the day to meet you."

"Is Mr. Tarrant the gentleman whom I was compelled to pitch out of my

room?"

"He claims that you mishandled him; but just how or why he did not say.

Should he," and the landlord's cherubic countenance was filled with

interest, "send a friend to converse with you, and you should chance to

be out, what report am I to give of you?"

"None," said Anthony curtly. "I am not at the beck and call of Mr.

Tarrant, or any of his friends."

"He has a rare eye at forty paces," said the host, with a nod. "A very

rare eye. They say there was no better shot in the navy than he, at

that distance."

But Anthony did not pause to make reply; out he went and down Chestnut

Street at a clipping pace. There was to be no more vague talk; he'd had

enough of that the day before; there were to be no more hintings, no

more warnings without body enough behind them for a man to grasp. He

would have plain speech, now; and short speech, or he'd know the reason

why!

The hour was rather earlier than the hour he had started out on the

morning before. There was no such hurrying of drays and porters as

then; Water Street was stirring slightly, but the river front was still

sluggish with sleep, and the deep sea ships in the docks and the stream

were as silent as though deserted. He had no idea that Magruder would

be in his place of business at this hour, but impatience would not

permit him to wait; if he found the place closed, he could tramp about

the docks, and return at an hour that promised better.

The shutters were still up at the windows that faced the wharves, and

the heavy door was fast. Anthony, however, recalled that the trader

had his counting-room at the back, with its windows opening upon an

alley; and he made his way around the building on the chance that it

was by a door on this side that Magruder usually entered. Here, too,

the shutters were up; there was the door, as he expected, and it was

standing slightly ajar.

Evidently Magruder, or a clerk, had just arrived, and had not yet time

to let daylight into the place. Anthony shoved the door farther open

and went in. He found himself in a sort of anteroom, cluttered with

nail kegs, bits of plank and cordage, and all the rubbish and refuse

of shipping; there was a dark passage that he felt led to the wareroom

through which he had passed on the previous day; almost at his hand was

a door leading into the counting-room. He lifted the latch of this, and

it opened readily; the place was dark save for here and there a gray

dart of day that came in at the chinks in the shutters.

"Hello!" Anthony spoke loudly, so that his voice might also carry down

through the passage into the other parts of the building. "Magruder!

Are you here?"

But there was no reply. He then rapped with his stick upon the floor,

but no one came in answer. Making his way through the passage, he came

to the wareroom, dark, heavy smelling, and with rats scuttling about;

again he called, but still received no reply. Back at the counting-room

door, he looked in; by this time his eyes had grown more used to the

dimness, and he began to make things out. There was the cupboard

bulging with papers; there was the high desk where Magruder had stood

when he first saw him. There must be a pewter candle-stick upon one end

of this; Anthony had noted it the day before because the candle end

had guttered so, and trailing down the metal holder was the "ghost's

shrowd" held by believers in omens to be a sign of peculiar portent.

Anthony felt for this and found it; with his fusee he struck a light,

and in a moment had the candle stump burning with a long flame. His

shadow danced hugely upon the wall as he turned to look about; and

it was then that he saw Magruder, sitting in a chair, hunched in a

horridly crooked way, his mouth open in a frozen cry, great clots of

blood darkening his neck-cloth, and dead!