If Mr. Taggett was without imagination, as he claimed, he was not without a certain feminine quickness of sympathy often found in persons engaged in professions calculated to blunt the finer sensibilities.  In his intercourse with Mr. Slocum at the Shackford house, Mr. Taggett had been won by the singular gentleness and simplicity of the man, and was touched by his misfortune.

After his exclamation, Mr. Slocum did not speak for a moment or two, but with his elbows resting on the edge of the desk sat motionless, like a person stunned.  Then he slowly lifted his face, to which the color had returned, and making a movement with his right hand as if he were sweeping away cobwebs in front of him rose from the chair.

“You are simply mad,” he said, looking Mr. Taggett squarely and calmly in the eyes.  “Are you aware of Mr. Richard Shackford’s character and his position here?”

“Precisely.”

“Do you know that he is to marry my daughter?”

“I am very sorry for you, sir.”

“You may spare me that.  It is quite unnecessary.  You have fallen into some horrible delusion.  I hope you will be able to explain it.”

“I am prepared to do so, sir.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious, Mr. Slocum.”

“You actually imagine that Richard Shackford—­Pshaw!  It’s simply impossible!”

“I am too young a man to wish even to seem wiser than you, but my experience has taught me that nothing is impossible.”

“I begin to believe so myself.  I suppose you have grounds, or something you consider grounds, for your monstrous suspicion.  What are they?  I demand to be fully informed of what you have been doing in the yard, before you bring disgrace upon me and my family by inconsiderately acting on some wild theory which perhaps ten words can refute.”

“I should be in the highest degree criminal, Mr. Slocum, if I were to make so fearful an accusation against any man unless I had the most incontestable evidence in my hands.”

Mr. Taggett spoke with such cold-blooded conviction that a chill crept over Mr. Slocum, in spite of him.

“What is the nature of this evidence?”

“Up to the present stage, purely circumstantial.”

“I can imagine that,” said Mr. Slocum, with a slight smile.

“But so conclusive as to require no collateral evidence.  The testimony of an eye-witness of the crime could scarcely add to my knowledge of what occurred that Tuesday night in Lemuel Shackford’s house.”

“Indeed, it is all so clear!  But of course a few eye-witnesses will turn up eventually,” said Mr. Slocum, whose whiteness about the lips discounted the assurance of his sarcasm.

“That is not improbable,” returned Mr. Taggett.

“And meanwhile what are the facts?”

“They are not easily stated.  I have kept a record of my work day by day, since the morning I entered the yard.  The memoranda are necessarily confused, the important and the unimportant being jumbled together; but the record as it stands will answer your question more fully than I could, even if I had the time—­which I have not—­to go over the case with you.  I can leave these notes in your hands, if you desire it.  When I return from New York”—­