"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I'll see."

At home again, he and his wife sat down to talk the charming mystery
over; they were in no condition for sleep. The first question was, Who
could the citizen have been who gave the stranger the twenty dollars? It
seemed a simple one; both answered it in the same breath--

"Barclay Goodson."

"Yes," said Richards, "he could have done it, and it would have been like
him, but there's not another in the town."

"Everybody will grant that, Edward--grant it privately, anyway. For six
months, now, the village has been its own proper self once more--honest,
narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."

"It is what he always called it, to the day of his death--said it right
out publicly, too."

"Yes, and he was hated for it."

"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon he was the best-hated man
among us, except the Reverend Burgess."

"Well, Burgess deserves it--he will never get another congregation here.
Mean as the town is, it knows how to estimate _him_. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess to deliver the money?"

"Well, yes--it does. That is--that is--"