After the departure of Lawyer Perkins, who had been struck by the singular perturbation of his old friend, Mr. Slocum drew forth Mt.  Taggett’s journal, and re-read it from beginning to end.  Margaret’s unquestioning faith in Richard, her prompt and indignant rejection of the whole story, had shaken her father at moments that morning; but now his paralyzing doubts returned.  This second perusal of the diary impressed him even more strongly than the first.  Richard had killed Lemuel Shackford,—­in self-defense, may be, or perhaps accidentally; but he had killed him!  As Mr. Slocum passed from page to page, following the dark thread of narrative that darkened at each remove, he lapsed into that illogical frame of mind when one looks half expectantly for some providential interposition to avert the calamity against which human means are impotent.  If Richard were to drop dead in the street!  If he were to fall overboard off Point Judith in the night!  If only anything would happen to prevent his coming back!  Thus the ultimate disgrace might be spared them.  But the ill thing is the sure thing; the letter with the black seal never miscarries, and Richard was bound to come!  “There is no escape for him or for us,” murmured Mr. Slocum, closing his finger in the book.

It was in a different mood that Margaret said to herself, “It is nearly four o’clock; he will be here at eight!” As she stood at the parlor window and watched the waning afternoon light making its farewells to the flower-beds in the little square front-gardens of the houses opposite, Margaret’s heart was filled with the tenderness of the greeting she intended to give Richard.  She had never been cold or shy in her demeanor with him, nor had she ever been quite demonstrative; but now she meant to put her arms around his neck in a wifely fashion, and recompense him so far as she could for all the injustice he was to suffer.  When he came to learn of the hateful slander that had lifted its head during his absence, he should already be in possession of the assurance of her faith.

In the mean while the hands in Slocum’s Yard were much exercised over the unaccountable disappearance of Blake.  Stevens reported the matter to Mr. Slocum.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Slocum, who had not provided himself with an explanation, and was puzzled to improvise one.  “I discharged him,—­that is to say, I let him go.  I forgot to mention it.  He didn’t take to the trade.”

“But he showed a good fist for a beginner,” said Stevens.  “He was head and shoulders the best of the new lot.  Shall I put Stebbins in his place?”

“You needn’t do anything until Mr. Shackford gets back.”

“When will that be, sir?”

“To-night, probably.”

The unceremonious departure of Blake formed the theme of endless speculation at the tavern that evening, and for the moment obscured the general interest in old Shackford’s murder.

“Never to let on he was goin’!” said one.