et with his foot.

"Mr. Shackford!"

"Well?"

"I am as grateful--as a dog."

Torrini did not speak again. This expression of his gratitude
appeared to ease him. His respiration grew lighter and more regular,
and by and by he fell into a profound sleep. Richard watched awhile
expectantly, with his head resting against the rail of the bedstead;
then his eyelids drooped, and he too slumbered. But once or twice,
before he quite lost himself, he was conscious of Brigida's thin face
thrust like a silver wedge through the half-open door of the hall
bedroom. It was the last thing he remembered,--that sharp, pale face
peering out from the blackness of the inner chamber as his grasp
loosened on the world and he drifted off on the tide of a dream. A
narrow white hand, like a child's, seemed to be laid against his
breast. It was not Margaret's hand, and yet it was hers. No, it was
the plaster model he had made that idle summer afternoon, years and
years before he had ever thought of loving her. Strange for it to be
there! Then Richard began wondering how the gold ring would look in
the slender forefinger. He unfastened the leather bag and took out
the ring. He was vainly trying to pass it over the first joint of the
dead white finger, when the cast slipped from his hold and fell with
a crash to the floor. Richard gave a shudder, and opened his eyes.
Brigida was noiselessly approaching Torrini's bedside. Torrini still
slept. It was broad day. Through the uncurtained window Richard saw
the blue sky barred with crimson.

XXIV

"Richard did come home last night, after all," said Mr. Slocum,
with a flustered air, seating himself at the breakfast table.

Margaret looked up quickly.

"I just met Peters on the street, and he told me," added Mr.
Slocum.

"Richard returned last night, and did not come to us!"

"It seems that he watched with Torrini,--the man is going to die."

"Oh," said Margaret, cooling instantly. "That was like Richard; he
never thinks of himself first. I would not have had him do
differently. Last evening you were filled with I don't know what
horrible suspicions, yet see how simply everything explains itself."

"If I could speak candidly, Margaret, if I could express myself
without putting you into a passion, I would tell you that Richard's
passing the night with that man has given me two or three ugly
ideas."

"Positively, papa, you are worse than Mr. Taggett."

"I shall not say another word