“When was the last time?”

“A day or two previous to the strike.”

“As you were not in the habit of visiting the house, you must have had some purpose in going there.  What was the occasion?”

Richard hung his head thoughtfully.  “I went there to talk over family matters,—­to inform him of my intended marriage to Margaret Slocum.  I wanted his good-will and support.  Mr. Slocum had offered to take me into the business.  I thought perhaps my cousin Lemuel, seeing how prosperous I was, would be more friendly to me.”

“Did you wish him to lend you capital?”

“I didn’t expect or wish him to; but there was some question of that.”

“And he refused?”

“Rather brutally, if I may say so now.”

“Was there a quarrel?”

Richard hesitated.

“Of course I don’t press you,” said Mr. Perkins, with some stiffness.  “You are not on the witness stand.”

“I began to think I was—­in the prisoner’s dock,” answered Richard, smiling ruefully.  “However, I have nothing to conceal.  I hesitated to reply to you because it was painful for me to reflect that the last time I saw my cousin we parted in anger.  He charge me with attempting to overreach him, and I left the house in indignation.”

“That was the last time you saw him?”

“The last time I saw him alive.”

“Was there any communication between you two after that?”

“No.”

“None whatever?”

“None.”

“Are you quite positive?”

“As positive as I can be that I live and have my senses.”

Lawyer Perkins pulled a black strand of hair over his forehead, and remained silent for nearly a minute.

“Mr. Shackford, are you sure that your cousin did not write a note to you on the Monday preceding the night of his death?”

“He may have written a dozen, for all I know.  I only know that I never received a note or a letter from him in the whole course of my life.”

“Then how do you account for the letter which has been found in your rooms in Lime Street,—­a letter addressed to you by Lemuel Shackford, and requesting you to call at his house on that fatal Tuesday night?”

“I—­I know nothing about it,” stammered Richard.  “There is no such paper!”

“It was in this office less than one hour ago,” said Lawyer Perkins sternly.  “It was brought here for me to identify Lemuel Shackford’s handwriting.  Justice Beemis has that paper!”

“Justice Beemis has it!” exclaimed Richard.

“I have nothing more to say,” observed Lawyer Perkins, reaching out his hand towards the green bag, as a sign that the interview was ended.  “There were other points I wished to have some light thrown on; but I have gone far enough to see that it is useless.”

“What more is there?” demanded Richard in a voice that seemed to come through a fog.  “I insist on knowing!  You suspect me of my cousin’s murder?”