ch 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!"

XXIII

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 wo