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 i