Mrs. Rightbody believed it better to see them alone. “All right, ma'am. I'll hang round out here; and ef ye should happen to have a ticklin' in your throat, and a bad spell o' coughin', I'll drop in, careless like, to see if you don't want them drops. Sabe?” And with an exceedingly arch wink, and a slight familiar tap on Mrs. Rightbody's shoulder, which might have caused the late Mr. Rightbody to burst his sepulchre, he withdrew. A very timid, hesitating tap on the door was followed by the entrance of two men, both of whom, in general size, strength, and uncouthness, were ludicrously inconsistent with their diffident announcement. They proceeded in Indian file to the centre of the room, faced Mrs. Rightbody, acknowledged her deep courtesy by a strong shake of the hand, and, drawing two chairs opposite to her, sat down side by side. “I presume I have the pleasure of addressing--” began Mrs. Rightbody. The man directly opposite Mrs. Rightbody turned to the other inquiringly. The other man nodded his head, and replied,-- “Seventy-Four.” “Seventy-Five,” promptly followed the other. Mrs. Rightbody paused, a little confused. “I have sent for you,” she began again, “to learn something more of the circumstances under which you gentlemen sent a despatch to my late husband.” “The circumstances,” replied Seventy-Four quietly, with a side-glance at his companion, “panned out about in this yer style. We hung a man named Josh Silsbie, down at Deadwood, for hoss-stealin'. When I say WE, I speak for Seventy-Five yer as is present, as well as representin', so to speak, seventy-two other gents as is scattered. We hung Josh Silsbie on squar, pretty squar, evidence. Afore he was strung up, Seventy-Five yer axed him, accordin' to custom, ef ther was enny thing he had to say, or enny request that he allowed to make of us. He turns to Seventy-Five yer, and--” Here he paused suddenly, looking at his companion. “He sez, sez he,” began Seventy-Five, taking up the narrative,--“he sez, 'Kin I write a letter?' sez he. Sez I, 'Not much, ole man: ye've got no time.' Sez he, 'Kin I send a despatch by telegraph?' I sez, 'Heave ahead.' He sez,--these is his dientikal words,--'Send to Adam Rightbody, Boston. Tell him to remember his sacred compack with me thirty years ago.'” “'His sacred compack with me thirty years ago,'” echoed Seventy-Four,--“his dientikal words.” “What was the compact?” asked Mrs. Rightbody anxiously. Seventy-Four looked at Seventy-Five, and then both arose, and retired to the corner of the parlor, where they engaged in a slow but whispered deliberation. Presently they returned, and sat down again. “We allow,” said Seventy-Four, quietly but decidedly, “that YOU know what that sacred compact was.” Mrs. Rightbody lost her temper and her truthfulness together. “Of course,” she said hurriedly, “I know. But do you mean to say that you gave this poor man no further chance to explain before you murdered him?”