Three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found himself in possession of a prized memento—­one of the renowned bogus double-eagles.  Around one of its faces was stamped these words:  “THE REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER WAS—­” Around the other face was stamped these:  “GO, AND REFORM. [SIGNED] PINKERTON.”  Thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect.  It revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and Harkness’s election was a walk-over.

Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had received their cheques their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had committed.  But they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out.  This gives it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect.  At church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was different:  the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins.  After church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what—­vague, shadowy, indefinite fears.  And by chance they caught a glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner.  He paid no attention to their nod of recognition!  He hadn’t seen it; but they did not know that.  What could his conduct mean?  It might mean—­it might—­mean—­oh, a dozen dreadful things.  Was it possible that he knew that Richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts?  At home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening when Richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of Burgess’s innocence; next Richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he had heard it.  They would call Sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been betraying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her manner.  They asked her some questions—­questions which were so random and incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people’s minds had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the business.  She blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain signs of guilt—­guilt of some fearful sort or other—­without doubt she was a spy and a traitor.  When they were alone again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out of the combination.  When things had got about to the worst Richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked: