“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 Church 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.