One of the gentlemen of leisure seconded this motion; it was carried unanimously, and this gentleman of leisure was himself appointed courier and left the room in a hurry. He had hardly reached the street when he was back again, followed closely by Dempsey, Quigg, Crimmins, Justice Rowan, and, last of all, fumbling with his fur cap, deathly pale, and entirely sober--Dan McGaw. “There's no use of my going,” said the courier trustee, taking his seat. “Grogan won't live an hour, if she ain't dead now. She had a sick horse that wanted looking after, and she went into the stable without a light, and he let drive, and broke her skull. She's got a gash the length of your hand--wasn't that it, Mr. McGaw?” McGaw nodded his head. “Yes; that's about it,” he said. The voice seemed to come from his stomach, it was so hollow. “Did you see her, Mr. McGaw?” asked the Scotchman in a positive tone. “How c'u'd I be a-seein' her whin I been in New Yorruk 'mos' all day? D' ye think I'm runnin' roun' to ivery stable in the place? I wuz a-comin' 'cross lots whin I heared it. They says the horse had blin' staggers.” “How do you know, then?” asked the Scotchman suspiciously. “Who told you the horse kicked her?” “Well, I dunno; I think it wuz some un”-- Dempsey looked at him and knit his brow. McGaw stopped. “Don't you know enough of a horse to know he couldn't kick with blind staggers?” insisted the Scotchman. McGaw did not answer. “Does anybody know any of the facts connected with this dreadful accident to Mrs. Grogan?” asked the president. “Have you heard anything, Mr. Quigg?” Mr. Quigg had heard absolutely nothing, and had not seen Mrs. Grogan for months. Mr. Crimmins was equally ignorant, and so were several other gentlemen. Here a voice came from the back of the room. “I met Dr. Mason, sir, an hour ago, after he had attended Tom Grogan. He was on his way to Quarantine in his buggy. He said he left her insensible after dressin' the wound. He thought she might not live till mornin'.” “May I ask your name, sir?” asked the president in a courteous tone. “Peter Lathers. I am yardmaster at the U. S. Lighthouse Depot.” The title, and the calm way in which Lathers spoke, convinced the president and the room. Everybody realized that Tom's life hung by a thread. The Scotchman still had a lingering doubt. He also wished to clear up the blind-staggers theory. “Did he say how she was hurt?” asked the Scotchman. “Yes. He said he was a-drivin' by when they picked her up, and he was dead sure that somebody had hid in the stable and knocked her on the head with a club.” McGaw steadied himself with his hand and grasped the seat of his chair. The sweat was rolling from his face. He seemed afraid to look up, lest some other eye might catch his own and read his thoughts. If he had only seen Lathers come in!