Mr. Slocum had let the correspondence go to the winds, and a formidable collection of unanswered letters lay on Shackford’s desk.  The forenoon was consumed in reducing the pile and settling the questions that had risen in the shops, for Mr. Slocum had neglected everything.  Richard was speedily advised of Blake’s dismissal from the yard, but, not knowing what explanation had been offered, was unable to satisfy Stevens’ curiosity on the subject.  “I must see Slocum about that at once,” reflected Richard; but the opportunity did not occur, and he was too much pressed to make a special business of it.

Mr. Slocum, meanwhile, was in a wretched state of suspense and apprehension.  Justice Beemis’s clerk had served some sort of legal paper—­presumably a subpoena—­on Richard, who had coolly read it in the yard under the gaze of all, and given no sign of discomposure beyond a momentary lifting of the eyebrows.  Then he had carelessly thrust the paper into one of his pockets and continued his directions to the men.  Clearly he had as yet no suspicion of the mine that was ready to be sprung under his feet.

Shortly after this little incident, which Mr. Slocum had witnessed from the window of the counting-room, Richard spoke a word or two to Stevens, and quitted the yard.  Mr. Slocum dropped into the carving department.

“Where is Mr. Shackford, Stevens?”

“He has gone to Mitchell’s Alley, sir.  Said he’d be 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.