Richard did not speak for a moment or two.  The wretchedness and grimness of it all smote him to the heart.  When he looked up Mr. Taggett was gone, and the priest was gently drawing the coverlet over Torrini’s face.

Richard approached Father O’Meara and said:  “When the money is found, please take charge of it, and see that every decent arrangement is made.  I mean, spare nothing.  I am a Protestant, but I believe in any man’s prayers when they are not addressed to a heathen image.  I promised Torrini to send his wife and children to Italy.  This pitiful, miserable gold, which cost so dear and is worth so little, shall be made to do that much good, at least.”

As Richard was speaking, a light footfall sounded on the staircase outside; then the door, which stood ajar, was softly pushed open, and Margaret paused on the threshold.  At the rustle of her dress Richard turned, and hastened towards her.

“It is all over,” he said softly, laying his finger on his lip.  Father O’Meara was again kneeling by the bedside.

“Let us go now,” whispered Richard to Margaret.  It seemed fit that they should leave the living and the dead to the murmured prayers and solemn ministration of the kindly priest.  Such later services as Margaret could render to the bereaved woman were not to be wanting.

At the foot of the stairs Richard Shackford halted abruptly, and, oblivious of the two children who were softly chattering together in the doorway, caught Margaret’s hand in his.

“Margaret, Torrini has made a confession that sets at rest all question of my cousin’s death.”

“Do you mean that he”—­Margaret faltered, and left the sentence unfinished.

“No; it was William Durgin, God forgive him!”

“William Durgin!” The young girl’s fingers closed nervously on Richard’s as she echoed the name, and she began trembling.  “That—­that is stranger yet!”

“I will tell you everything when we get home; this is no time or place; but one thing I must ask you now and here.  When you sat with me last night were you aware that Mr. Taggett firmly believed it was I who had killed Lemuel Shackford?”

“Yes,” said Margaret.

“That is all I care to know!” cried Richard; “that consoles me!” and the two pairs of great inquisitive eyes looking up from the stone step saw the signorina standing quite mute and colorless with the strange gentleman’s arms around her.  And the signorina was smiling!

XXVIII

One June Morning, precisely a year from that morning when the reader first saw the daylight breaking upon Stillwater, several workmen with ladders and hammers were putting up a freshly painted sign over the gate of the marble yard.  Mr. Slocum and Richard stood on the opposite curbstone, to which they had retired in order to take in the general effect.  The new sign read,—­Slocum & Shackford.  Richard