The defection of Mr. Taggett caused a mild panic among a certain portion of the inhabitants, who were not reassured by the statement in the Gazette that the case would now be placed in the proper hands,—­the hand so the county constabulary.  “Within a few days,” said the editor in conclusion, “the matter will undoubtedly be cleared up.  At present we cannot say more;” and it would have puzzled him very much to do so.

A week passed, and no fresh light was thrown upon the catastrophe, nor did anything occur to rattle the usual surface of life in the village.  A man—­it was Torrini, the Italian—­got hurt in Dana’s iron foundry; one of Blufton’s twin girls died; and Mr. Slocum took on a new hand from out of town.  That was all.  Stillwater was the Stillwater of a year ago, with always the exception of that shadow lying upon it, and the fact that small boys who had kindling to get in were careful to get it in before nightfall.  It would appear that the late Mr. Shackford had acquired a habit of lingering around wood-plies after dark, and also of stealing into bed-chambers, where little children were obliged to draw the sheets over their heads in order not to see him.

The action of the county constabulary had proved quite as mysterious and quite as barren of result as Mr. Taggett’s had been.  They had worn his mantle of secrecy, and arrested the tramps over again.

Another week dragged by, and the editorial prediction seemed as far as ever from fulfillment.  But on the afternoon which closed that fortnight a very singular thing did happen.  Mr. Slocum was sitting alone in his office, which occupied the whole of a small building at the right of the main gate to the marble works.  When the door behind him softly opened and a young man, whose dress covered with stone-dust indicated his vocation, appeared on the threshold.  He hesitated a second, and then stepped into the room.  Mr. Slocum turned round with a swift, apprehensive air.

“You gave me a start!  I believe I haven’t any nerves left.  Well?”

“Mr. Slocum, I have found the man.”

The proprietor of the marble yard half rose from the desk in his agitation.

“Who is it?” he asked beneath his breath.

The same doubt or irresolution which had checked the workman at the threshold seemed again to have taken possession of him.  It was fully a moment before he gained the mastery over himself; but the mastery was complete; for he leaned forward gravely, almost coldly, and pronounced two words.  A quick pallor overspread Mr. Slocum’s features.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, sinking back into the chair.  “Are you mad?”

V