When the down express arrived at Stillwater, that night, two
passengers stepped from the rear car to the platform: one was Richard
Shackford, and the other a commercial traveler, whose acquaintance
Richard had made the previous evening on the Fall River boat.
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 the 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. Shackford?"
"If it isn't a long one. I am rather pressed."
"It is about Torrini, 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."