Richard added the address to the final envelope, dried it with the blotter, and abruptly shut down the lid of the inkstand with an air of as great satisfaction as if he had been the fisherman in the Arabian story corking up the wicked afrite.  With his finger still pressing the leaden cover, as though he were afraid the imp of toil would get out again, he was suddenly impressed by the fact that he had seen very little of Mr. Slocum that day.

“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 Richard Shackford that day.