n
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
Chur