“Mitchell’s Alley,” said Mr. Taggett, thrusting his arm through Richard’s, and hurrying on the escape the Stillwater gaze.  “You went there directly from the station the night you got home.”

“How did you know that?”

“I was told by a fellow-traveler of yours,—­and a friend of mine.”

“By Jove!  Did it ever strike you, Mr. Taggett, that there is such a thing as being too clever?”

“It has occurred to me recently.”

“Here is the house.”

Two sallow-skinned children, with wide, wistful black eyes, who were sitting on the stone step, shyly crowded themselves together against the door-jamb to make passage-way for Richard and Mr. Taggett.  Then the two pairs of eyes veered round inquiringly, and followed the strangers up the broken staircase and saw one of them knock at the door which faced the building.

Richard’s hasty tap bringing no response, he lifted the latch without further ceremony and stepped into the chamber, Mr. Taggett a pace or two behind him.  The figure of Father O’Meara slowly rising from a kneeling posture at the bedside was the first object that met their eyes; the second was Torrini’s placid face, turned a little on the pillow; the third was Brigida sitting at the foot of the bed, motionless, with her arms wrapped in her apron.

“He is dead,” said the priest softly, advancing a step towards Richard.  “You are too late.  He wanted to see you, Mr. Shackford, but you were not to be found.”

Richard sent a swift glance over the priest’s shoulder.  “He wanted to tell me what part he had played in my cousin’s murder?” said Richard.

“God forbid! the wretched man had many a sin on his soul, but not that.”

“Not that!”

“No; he had no hand in it,—­no more than you or I. His fault was that he concealed his knowledge of the deed after it was done.  He did not even suspect who committed the crime until two days’ afterwards, when William Durgin”—­

Richard’s eyes lighted up as they encountered Mr. Taggett’s.  The priest mistook the significance of the glances.

“No,” said Father O’Meara, indicating Brigida with a quick motion of his head, “the poor soul does not understand a word.  But even if she did, I should have to speak of these matters here and now, while they are fresh in my mind.  I am obeying the solemn injunctions of the dead.  Two days after the murder William Durgin came to Torrini and confessed the deed, offering to share with him a large sum in gold and notes if he would hide the money temporarily.  Torrini agreed to do so.  Later Durgin confided to him his plan of turning suspicion upon you, Mr. Shackford; indeed, of directly charging you with the murder, if the worst came to the worst.  Torrini agreed to that also, because of some real or fancied injury at your hands.  It seems that the implement which Durgin had employed in forcing the scullery door—­the implement which he