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 night-fall 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 Lemuel Shackford's estate, real
and personal, was left unconditionally to his cousin.
"That disposes of one of Mr. Taggett'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 pique.
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 Mt.
Taggett's journal, and re-read 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
Lemuel Shackford,--in self-defense, may be, 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 for 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 in the little square front-gardens of
the houses 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 had 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 should
already be in possession of the assurance of her faith.
In the mean while 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 until Mr. Shackford gets back."
"When will that be, sir?"
"To-night, 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 to let on he was goin'!" said one.
"Didn't say good-by to nobody," remarked a second.
"It was devilish uncivil," added a third.
"It is kind of mysterious," said Mr. Peters.
"Some girl," suggested Mr. Willson, 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 ebb tide."
"Two murders in Stillwater in one month would be rather crowding
it, wouldn't it?" inquired Piggott.
"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 fellow 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. May be Shackford when he"--Stevens 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
wood-land, 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 any one to
take charge 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 Stillwater 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 tolled 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
time-piece, throbbing monotonously in its dusky 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 that 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 subtile commiseration in his manner, resented it, and
released herself coldly.
"He has been detained, papa."
"Yes, something must have detained him!"