“I do not wish to; but there are two things in Mr. Taggett’s story which stagger me.  The motive for the destruction of Shackford’s papers,—­that’s not plain; the box of matches is a puerility unworthy of a clever man like Mr. Taggett, and as to the chisel he found, why, there are a hundred broken chisels in the village, and probably a score of them broken in precisely the same manner; but, Margaret, did Richard every breathe a word to you of that quarrel with his cousin?”

“No.”

“He never mentioned it to me either.  As matters stood between you and him, nothing was more natural than that he should have spoken of it to you,—­so natural that his silence is positively strange.”

“He may have considered it too unimportant.  Mr. Shackford always abused Richard; it was nothing new.  Then, again, Richard is very proud, and perhaps he did not care to come to us just at that time with family grievances.  Besides, how do we know they quarreled?  The village is full of gossip.”

“I am certain there was a quarrel; it was only necessary for those two to meet to insure that.  I distinctly remember the forenoon when Richard went to Welch’s Court; it was the day he discharged Torrini.”

A little cloud passed over Margaret’s countenance.

“They undoubtedly had angry words together,” continued Mr. Slocum, “and we are forced to accept the Hennessey girl’s statement.  The reason you suggest for Richard’s not saying anything on the subject may suffice for us, but it will scarcely satisfy disinterested persons, and doesn’t at all cover another circumstance which must be taken in the same connection.”

“What circumstance?”

“His silence in regard to Lemuel Shackford’s note,—­a note written the day before the murder, and making an appointment for the very night of it.”

The girl looked steadily at her father.

“Margaret!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum, his face illuminated with a flickering hope as he met her untroubled gaze, “did Richard tell you?"

“No,” replied Margaret.

“Then he told no one,” said Mr. Slocum, with the light fading out of his features again.  “It was madness in him to conceal the fact.  He should not have lost a moment, after the death of his cousin, in making that letter public.  It ought instantly to have been placed in Coroner Whidden’s hands.  Richard’s action is inconceivable, unless—­unless”—­

“Do not say it!” cried Margaret.  “I should never forgive you!”

In recapitulating the points of Mr. Taggett’s accusation, Mr. Slocum had treated most of them as trivial; but he had not been sincere.  He knew that that broken chisel had no duplicate in

Stillwater, and that the finding of it in Richard’s closet was a black fact.  Mr. Slocum had also glossed over the quarrel; but that letter!—­the likelihood that Richard kept the appointment, and his absolute silence concerning it,—­here was a grim thing which no sophistry could dispose of.  It would be wronging Margaret to deceive her as to the vital seriousness of Richard’s position.