“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 worse.”

Richard halted.  “Took off his hand?”

“Didn’t you know he was caught in the rolling-machine at Dana’s?  Well, it was after you went away.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“It was hard lines for him, sir, with the woman and the two children, and nothing to eat in the house.  The boys in the yard have done what they could, but with the things from the drug-store, and so on, we couldn’t hold up our end.  Mr. Dana paid the doctor’s bill, but if it hadn’t been for Miss Slocum I don’t know what would have happened.  I thought may be if I spoke to you, and told you how it was”—­

“Did Torrini send you?”

“Lord, no!  He’s too proud to send to anybody.  He’s been so proud since they took off his hand that there has been no doing anything with him.  If they was to take off his leg, he would turn into one mass of pride.  No, Mr. Shackford, I came of myself.”

“Where does Torrini live, now?”

“In Mitchell’s Alley.”

“I will go along with you,” said Richard, with a dogged air.  It seemed as if the fates were determined to keep him from seeing Margaret that night.  Peters reached out a hand to take Richard’s leather bag.  “No, thank you, I can carry it very well.”  In a small morocco case in one of the pockets was a heavy plain gold ring for Margaret, and not for anything in the world would Richard have allowed any one else to carry the bag.