ken chisel found in the private
workshop of the accused explains the peculiar shape of the wound
which caused Lemuel Shackford's death, and corresponds in every
particular with the plaster impression taken of that wound.

_"Fourthly_. That the partially consumed match found on the
scullery floor when the body was discovered (a style of match not
used in the house in Welch's Court) completes the complement of a box
of safety-matches belonging to Richard Shackford, and hidden in a
closet in his workshop.

"Whether Shackford had an accomplice or not is yet to be
ascertained. There is nothing whatever to implicate Mr. Rowland
Slocum. I make the statement because his intimate association with
one party and his deep dislike of the other invited inquiry, and at
first raised an unjust suspicion in my mind."

The little red book slipped from Mr. Slocum's grasp and fell at
his feet. As he rose from the chair, the reflection which he caught
of himself in the dressing-table mirror was that of a wrinkled, white
old man.

Mr. Slocum did not believe, and no human evidence could have
convinced him, that Richard had deliberately killed Lemuel Shackford;
but as Mr. Slocum reached the final pages of the diary, a horrible
probability insinuated itself in his mind. Could Richard have done it
accidentally? Could he--in an instant of passion, stung to sudden
madness by that venomous old man--have struck him involuntarily, and
killed him? A certain speech which Richard had made in Mr. Slocum's
presence not long before came back to him now with fearful
emphasis:--

_"Three or four times in my life I have been carried away by a
devil of a temper which I couldn't control, it seized me so
unawares."_

"It seized me so unawares!" repeated Mr. Slocum, half aloud; and
then with a swift, unconscious gesture, he pressed his hands over his
ears, as if to shut out the words.

XXI

Margaret must be told. It would be like stabbing her to tell her
all this. Mr. Slocum had lain awake long after midnight, appalled by
the calamity that was about to engulf them. At moments, as his
thought reverted to Margaret's illness early in the spring, he felt
that perhaps it would have been a mercy if she had died then. He had
left the candles burning; it was not until the wicks sunk down in the
sockets and went softly out that slumber fell upon him.

He was now sitting at the breakfast-table, absently crumbling bits
of bread beside his plate and leav