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Updated: June 8, 2025
In order to take it he had only to reach out his hand in passing. It was, as Mr. Taggett had instantly surmised, the key of Richard's workshop. If it had been gold, instead of brass or iron, that bit of metal would have taken no additional value in Mr. Taggett's eyes. On leaving Mrs.
Taggett had received a wound in the most sensitive part of his nature: he had been forced to give up what no man ever relinquishes without a wrench, his own idea. With the exception of an accident in Dana's Mill, by which Torrini's hand had been so badly mangled that amputation was deemed necessary, the two weeks had been eventless outside of Mr. Taggett's personal experience.
Richard's brain reeled as he tried to fix his thought on Lemuel Shackford's letter. That letter! where had it been all this while, and how did it come into Taggett's possession? Only one thing was clear to Richard in his inextricable confusion, he was not going to be able to prove his innocence; he was a doomed man, and within the hour his shame would be published to the world.
The Gazette, in a double-leaded leader, went so far as to compare him to a bird with fine feathers and no song, and to suggest that perhaps the bird might have sung if the inducement offered had been more substantial. A singer of Mr. Taggett's plumage was not to be taught by such chaff as five hundred dollars.
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.
Then he stole through the marble yard into the silent street, and hurried home, carrying two small articles concealed under his blouse. The first was a chisel with a triangular piece broken out of the centre of the bevel, and the other was a box of safety-matches. The peculiarity of this box of matches was that just one match had been used from it. Mr. Taggett's work was done.
To-morrow Richard's innocence should shine forth and confound Mr. Taggett. A vague bitterness rose in Margaret's heart as she thought of her father. "Let us talk of something else," she said, brusquely breaking her pause; "let us talk of something pleasant." "Of ourselves, then," suggested Richard, banishing the shadow which had gathered in his eyes at his first mention of Mr. Taggett's name.
Shackford had acquired a habit of lingering around wood-plies after dark, and also of stealing into bed-chambers, where little children were obliged to draw the sheets over their heads in order not to see him. The action of the county constabulary had proved quite as mysterious and quite as barren of result as Mr. Taggett's had been.
To mention the name of Edward Taggett is to mention a name well known to the detective force of the great city lying sixty miles southwest of Stillwater. Mr. Taggett's arrival sent such a thrill of expectancy through the village that Mr. Leonard Tappleton, whose obsequies occurred this day, made his exit nearly unobserved. Yet there was little in Mr.
What that experience was will transpire in its proper place. Margaret was getting daily notes from Richard, and Mr. Slocum, overburdened with the secret of Mr. Taggett's presence in the yard, a secret confined exclusively to Mr. Slocum, Richard, and Justice Beemis, was restlessly awaiting developments. The developments came that afternoon when Mr. Taggett walked into the office and startled Mr.
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