"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.

XXV

The next morning Mr. Slocum did not make his appearance in the
marble yard. His half-simulated indisposition of the previous night
had turned into a genuine headache, of which he perhaps willingly
availed himself to remain in his room, for he had no desire to see
R