Harkutt became a trifle distant. "You know your own opinion of the
thing," he replied after a pause. "You've circumstantial evidence
enough to see the squire, and set others to work on it; and," he added
significantly, "you've done your share then, and can wipe your hands of
it, eh?"

"That's so," said Peters, eagerly. "I'll just run over to the squire."

"And on account of the women folks, you know, and the strangers here,
I'll say nothin' about it to-night," added Harkutt.

Peters nodded his head, and taking up the hat of the unfortunate Elijah
with a certain hesitation, as if he feared it had already lost its
dramatic intensity as a witness, disappeared into the storm and darkness
again. A lurking gust of wind lying in ambush somewhere seemed to swoop
down on him as if to prevent further indecision and whirl him away in
the direction of the justice's house; and Mr. Harkutt shut the door,
bolted it, and walked aimlessly back to the counter.

From a slow, deliberate and cautious man, he seemed to have changed
within an hour to an irresolute and capricious one. He took the paper
from his pocket, and, unlocking the money drawer of his counter, folded
into a small compass that which now seemed to be the last testament of
Elijah Curtis, and placed it in a recess. Then he went to the back door
and paused, then returned, reopened the money drawer, took out the
paper and again buttoned it in his hip pocket, standing by the stove and
staring abstractedly at the dull glow of the fire. He even went through
the mechanical process of raking down the ashes,--solely to gain time
and as an excuse for delaying some other necessary action.