h him he was
constantly expecting some one. I supposed him to be wandering in his
mind."

"He was expecting Durgin, though Torrini had every reason for
believing that he had fled."

Mr. Taggett leaned forward, and asked, "When did he go,--and
where?"

"He was too cunning to confide his plans to Torrini. Three nights
ago Durgin came here and begged for a portion of the bank-note;
previously he had reclaimed the whole sum; he said the place was
growing too warm for him, and that he had made up his mind to leave.
But Torrini held on to the money, having resolved that it should be
restored intact to you. He promised Durgin, however, to keep his
flight secret for three or four days, at the end of which time
Torrini meant to reveal all to me at confession. The night you sat
with him, Mr. Shackford, he was near breaking his promise; your
kindness was coals of fire on his head. His agony, lest he should die
or lose his senses before he could make known the full depth of
Durgin's villainy, must have been something terrible. This is the
substance of what the poor creature begged me to say to you with his
dying regrets. The money is hidden somewhere under the mattress, I
believe. A better man than Torrini would have spent some of it,"
added Father O'Meara, waving a sort of benediction in the direction
of the bed.

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 d