The Stillwater Tragedy. Aldrich Thomas Bailey

a silver watch. That was all snug under the old man's piller."

      "Wanter know!" ejaculated Jonathan Beers.

      "I opine, Mr. Craggie," said the school-master, standing in the inner room with a rolled-up file of the Daily Advertiser in his hand, "that the person who–who removed our worthy townsman will never be discovered."

      "I shouldn't like to go quite so far as that, sir," answered Mr. Craggie, with that diplomatic suavity which leads to postmasterships and seats in the General Court, and has even been known to oil a dull fellow's way into Congress. "I cannot take quite so hopeless a view of it. There are difficulties, but they must be overcome, Mr. Pinkham, and I think they will be."

      "Indeed, I hope so," returned the school-master. "But there are cases–are there not?–in which the–the problem, if I may so designate it, has never been elucidated, and the persons who undertook it have been obliged to go to the foot, so to speak."

      "Ah, yes, there are such cases, certainly. There was the Burdell mystery in New York, and, later, the Nathan affair–By the way, I've satisfactory theories of my own touching both. The police were baffled, and remain so. But, my dear sir, observe for a moment the difference."

      Mr. Pinkham rested one finger on the edge of a little round table, and leaned forward in a respectful attitude to observe the difference.

      "Those crimes were committed in a vast metropolis affording a thousand chances for escape, as well as offering a thousand temptations to the lawless. But we are a limited community. We have no professional murderers among us. The deed which has stirred society to its utmost depths was plainly done by some wayfaring amateur. Remorse has already arrived upon him, if the police haven't. For the time being he escapes; but he is bound to betray himself sooner or later. If the right steps are taken,–and I have myself the greatest confidence in Mr. Taggett,–the guilty party can scarcely fail to be brought to the bar of justice, if he doesn't bring himself there."

      "Indeed, indeed, I hope so," repeated Mr. Pinkham.

      "The investigation is being carried on very closely."

      "Too closely," suggested the school-master.

      "Oh dear, no," murmured Mr. Craggie. "The strictest secrecy is necessary in affairs of this delicate nature. If Tom, Dick, and Harry were taken behind the scenes," he added, with the air of one wishing to say too much, "the bottom would drop out of everything."

      Mr. Pinkham shrunk from commenting on a disaster like that, and relapsed into silence. Mr. Craggie, with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and his legs crossed in an easy, senatorial fashion, leaned back in the chair and smiled blandly.

      "I don't suppose there's nothing new, boys!" exclaimed a fat, florid man, bustling in good-naturedly at the public entrance, and leaving a straight wet trail on the sanded floor from the threshold to the polished mahogany counter. Mr. Wilson was a local humorist of the Falstaffian stripe, though not so much witty in himself as the cause of wit in others.

      "No, Jimmy, there isn't anything new," responded Dexter.

      "I suppose you didn't hear that the ole man done somethin' handsome for me in his last will and testyment."

      "No, Jemmy, I don't think he has made any provision whatever for an almshouse."

      "Sorry to hear that, Dexter," said Willson, absorbedly chasing a bit of lemon peel in his glass with the spoon handle, "for there isn't room for us all up at the town-farm. How's your grandmother? Finds it tol'rably comfortable?"

      They are a primitive, candid people in their hours of unlaced social intercourse in Stillwater. This delicate tu quoque was so far from wounding Dexter that he replied carelessly,–

      "Well, only so so. The old woman complains of too much chicken-sallid, and hot-house grapes all the year round."

      "Mr. Shackford must have left a large property," observed Mr. Ward, of the firm of Ward & Lock, glancing up from the columns of the Stillwater Gazette. The remark was addressed to Lawyer Perkins, who had just joined the group in the reading-room.

      "Fairly large," replied that gentleman crisply.

      "Any public bequests?"

      "None to speak of."

      Mr. Craggie smiled vaguely.

      "You see," said Lawyer Perkins, "there's a will and no will,–that is to say, the fragments of what is supposed to be a will were found, and we are trying to put the pieces together. It is doubtful if we can do it; it is doubtful if we can decipher it after we have done it; and if we decipher it it is a question whether the document is valid or not."

      "That is a masterly exposition of the dilemma, Mr. Perkins," said the school-master warmly.

      Mr. Perkins had spoken in his court-room tone of voice, with one hand thrust into his frilled shirt-bosom. He removed this hand for a second, as he gravely bowed to Mr. Pinkham.

      "Nothing could be clearer," said Mr. Ward. "In case the paper is worthless, what then? I am not asking you in your professional capacity," he added hastily; for Lawyer Perkins had been known to send in a bill on as slight a provocation as Mr. Ward's.

      "That's a point. The next of kin has his claims."

      "My friend Shackford, of course," broke in Mr. Craggie. "Admirable young man!–one of my warmest supporters."

      "He is the only heir at law so far as we know," said Mr. Perkins.

      "Oh," said Mr. Craggie, reflecting. "The late Mr. Shackford might have had a family in Timbuctoo or the Sandwich Islands."

      "That's another point."

      "The fact would be a deuced unpleasant point for young Shackford to run against," said Mr. Ward.

      "Exactly."

      "If Mr. Lemuel Shackford," remarked Coroner Whidden, softly joining the conversation to which he had been listening in his timorous, apologetic manner, "had chanced, in the course of his early sea-faring days, to form any ties of an unhappy complexion"–

      "Complexion is good," murmured Mr. Craggie. "Some Hawaiian lady!"

      –-"perhaps that would be a branch of the case worth investigating in connection with the homicide. A discarded wife, or a disowned son, burning with a sense of wrong"–

      "Really, Mr. Whidden!" interrupted Lawyer Perkins witheringly, "it is bad enough for my client to lose his life, without having his reputation filched away from him."

      "I–I will explain! I was merely supposing"–

      "The law never supposes, sir!"

      This threw Mr. Whidden into great mental confusion. As coroner was he not an integral part of the law, and when, in his official character, he supposed anything was not that a legal supposition? But was he in his official character now, sitting with a glass of lemonade at his elbow in the reading-room of the Stillwater hotel? Was he, or was he not, a coroner all the time? Mr. Whidden stroked an isolated tuft of hair growing low on the middle of his forehead, and glared mildly at Mr. Perkins.

      "Young Shackford has gone to New York, I understand," said Mr. Ward, breaking the silence.

      Mr. Perkins nodded. "Went this morning to look after the real-estate interests there. It will probably keep him a couple of weeks,–the longer the better. He was of no use here. Lemuel's death was a great shock to him, or rather the manner of it was."

      "That shocked every one. They were first cousin's weren't they?" Mr. Ward was a comparatively new resident in Stillwater.

      "First cousins," replied Lawyer Perkins; "but they were never very intimate, you know."

      "I imagine nobody was ever very intimate with Mr. Shackford."

      "My client was somewhat peculiar in his friendships."

      This was stating it charitably, for Mr. Perkins knew, and every one present knew, that Lemuel Shackford had not had the shadow of a friend in Stillwater, unless it was his cousin Richard.

      A cloud of mist and rain was blown into the bar-room as the street door stood open for a second to admit a dripping figure from the outside darkness.

      "What's