"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 Torrini,--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 evening 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 Richard's
passing the night with that man has given me two or three ugly
ideas."
"Positively, papa, you are worse than Mr. Taggett."
"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
unwonted 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 in
forcing itself upon his notice, had he not been so engrossed by the
work which had accumulated during his absence.
Mr. Slocum had let the correspondence go to the winds, 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 Stevens' 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 Beemis'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
Stevens, and quitted the yard. Mr. Slocum dropped into the carving
department.
"Where is Mr. Shackford, Stevens?"
"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; "any time will do. You needn'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 prostration. 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. Was 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. Morganson, his cousin's old housekeeper, to watch with Torrini
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. Taggett, 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. Taggett 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 paper-weight 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 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 Koh-i-Noor diamond, or some
inestimable gem which hundreds of envious persons were lying in wait
to wrest from me. Walking the streets with this trinket in my
possession, I have actually had a sense of personal insecurity. I
seemed 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 inkstand with an air
of as great satisfaction as if he had been the fisherman in the
Arabian story corking up the wicked afrite. With his finger still
pressing the leaden cover, as though 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. Slocum that day.
"I have hardly spoken to him," he reflected. "Where is your
father, to-night?"
"He has a headache," said Margaret. "He went to his room
immediately after supper."
"It is nothing serious, of course."
"I fancy not; papa is easily excited, and he had had a great deal
to trouble him lately,--the strike, and all that."
"I wonder if Mr. Taggett has been bothering him."
"I dare say Mr. Taggett has bothered him."
"You knew of his being in the yard?"
"Not while he was here. Papa told me yesterday. I think Mr.
Taggett 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 Taggett."
"Mr. Taggett has made a failure of it, Richard."
"If nothing new has transpired, then I do not understand the
summons I received to-day."
"A summons!"
"I've 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
Beemis's office to-morrow."
"I am very glad," said Margaret, with her face brightening.
To-morrow would lift the cloud which had spread itself over them all,
and was pressing down so heavily on one unconscious head. To-morrow
Richard's innocence should shine forth and confound Mr. Taggett. A
vague bitterness rose in Margaret's heart as she thought of her
father. "Let us talk of something else," she said, brusquely breaking
her pause; "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. Taggett's
name.
"Of ourselves," repeated Margaret gayly.
"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 in allowing
Margaret to spend the evening alone with Richard Shackford. Mr.
Slocum saw one thing with painful distinctness--that he could not
help himself.