Mr. Taggett flushed, as if Richard had read his secret thought.  Durgin’s flight, if he really had fled, had suggested a fresh possibility to Mr. Taggett.  What if Durgin were merely the pliant instrument of the cleverer man who was now using him as a shield?  This reflection was precisely in Mr. Taggett’s line.  In absconding Durgin had not only secured his own personal safety, but had exonerated his accomplice.  It was a desperate step to take, but it was a skillful one.

“He had an accomplice?” repeated Mr. Taggett, after a moment.  “Who was it?”

“Torrini!”

“The man who was hurt the other day?”

“Yes.”

“You have grounds for your assertion?”

“He and Durgin were intimate, and have been much together lately.  I sat up with Torrini the night before last; he acted and talked very strangely; the man was out of his head part of the time, but now, as I think it over, I am convinced that he had this matter on his mind, and was hinting at it.  I believe he would have made disclosures if I had urged him a little.  He was evidently in great dread of a visit from some person, and that person was Durgin.  Torrini ought to be questioned without delay; he is very low, and may die at any moment.  He is lying in a house at the further end of the town.  If it is not imperative that I should report myself to Justice Beemis, we had better go there at once.”

Mr. Taggett, who had been standing with his head half bowed, lifted it quickly as he asked the question, “Why did you withhold Lemuel Shackford’s letter?”

“It was never in my possession, Mr. Taggett,” said Richard, starting.  “That paper is something I cannot explain at present.  I can hardly believe in its existence, though Mr. Perkins declares that he has had it in his hands, and it would be impossible for him to make a mistake in my cousin’s writing.”

“The letter was found in your lodgings.”

“So I was told.  I don’t understand it.”

“That explanation will not satisfy the prosecuting attorney.”

“I have only one theory about it,” said Richard slowly.

“What is that?”

“I prefer not to state it now.  I wish to stop at my boarding-house on the way to Torrini’s; it will not be out of our course.”

Mr. Taggett gave silent acquiescence to this.  Richard opened the scullery door, and the two passed into the court.  Neither spoke until they reached Lime Street.  Mrs. Spooner herself answered Richard’s ring, for he had purposely dispensed with the use of his pass-key.

“I wanted to see you a moment, Mrs. Spooner,” said Richard, making no motion to enter the hall.  “Thanks, we will not come in.  I merely desire to ask you a question.  Were you at home all day on that Monday immediately preceding my cousin’s death?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Spooner wonderingly, with her hand still resting on the knob.  “I wasn’t at home at all.  I spent the day and part of the night with my daughter Maria Ann at South Millville.  It was a boy,” added Mrs. Spooner, quite irrelevantly, smoothing her ample apron with the disengaged hand.