“You are going to New York!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum, with a start.  “When?”

“This evening.”

“If you lay a finger on Richard Shackford, you will make the mistake of your life, Mr. Taggett!”

“I have other business there.  Mr. Shackford will be in Stillwater to-morrow night.  He engaged a state-room on the Fall River boat this morning.”

“How can you know that?”

“Since last Tuesday none of his movements have been unknown to me.”

“Do you mean to say that you have set your miserable spies upon him?” cried Mr. Slocum.

“I should not state the fact in just those words,” Mr. Taggett answered.  “The fact remains.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Slocum.  “I am not quite myself.  Can you wonder at it?”

“I do not wonder.”

“Give me those papers you speak of, Mr. Taggett.  I would like to look through them.  I see that you are a very obstinate person when you have once got a notion into your head.  Perhaps I can help you out of your error before it is irreparable.”  Then, after hesitating a second, Mr. Slocum added, “I may speak of this to my daughter?  Indeed, I could scarcely keep it from her.”

“Perhaps it is better she should be informed.”

“And Mr. Shackford, when he returns to-morrow?”

“If he broaches the subject of his cousin’s death, I advise you to avoid it.”

“Why should I?”

“It might save you or Miss Slocum some awkwardness,—­but you must use your own discretion.  As the matter stands it makes no difference whether Mr. Shackford knows his position to-day or to-morrow.  It is too late for him to avail himself of the knowledge.  Otherwise, of course, I should not have given myself away in this fashion.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, with an impatient movement of his shoulders; “neither I nor my daughter will open our lips on this topic.  In the mean while you are to take no further steps without advising me.  That is understood?”

“That is perfectly understood,” returned Mr. Taggett, drawing a narrow red note-book from the inner pocket of his workman’s blouse, and producing at the same time a small nickel-plated door-key.  “This is the key of Mr. Shackford’s private workshop in the extension.  I have not been able to replace it on the mantel-shelf of his sitting-room in Lime Street.  Will you have the kindness to see that it is done at once?”

A moment later Mr. Slocum stood alone in the office, with Mr. Taggett’s diary in his hand.  It was one of those costly little volumes—­gilt-edged and bound in fragrant crushed Levant morocco—­with which city officials are annually supplied by a community of grateful taxpayers.