Alice sat back in her chair in alarm. “Good heavens, Edith,” she gasped, “you must be losing your mind.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t possible you are thinking of—” She paused and left her sentence incomplete, gazing intently at her sister. “Do you care for him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do. You know what my life has been here. You know what it is going to be, for years. I suppose you will think me very disloyal and wicked, but, when a woman’s whole existence is made up, year after year, of wishing for all the things that make life worth while, and never, never being able to afford them, her love for her husband seems somehow to become dried up, and unimportant.”
“Hm-m—I suppose it does. I’ve never yet got to the point, myself, where I can really enjoy making over my last season’s clothes. I try to think they look as good as new, but they never do. I’m afraid I haven’t enough imagination. But all that doesn’t make any difference now. You’re married to Donald, and you’ve got to make the best of it. What a pity you didn’t choose Billy! Half a million—hm-m—it sounds like heaven to me. I wonder if he wouldn’t like me as a second choice,” she rattled on. “We certainly ought to try to keep that money in the family, somehow.”
“Alice, don’t talk such nonsense. It isn’t Billy’s money I’m thinking of.”
“If you can persuade yourself that that’s true,” said her sister grimly, “you really must be in love with him. But what’s the use of talking about it? It’s absurd.”
Edith stood up and walked nervously over to the desk, where she began idly fumbling with the papers upon it. Presently she turned to her sister who was regarding her with an inquiring look.
“He—he wants me to leave Donald,” she cried, in a half-frightened way.
“No! What a nerve!” Alice seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge joke.
“He says that I am wearing myself out,” continued her sister, “that I am wasting all the youth, and sweetness and joy of life, grinding on here in this hopeless situation. He says that, if Donald really loved me, he would see that, too.”
“It sounds like the latest best seller. The hero always says that to the neglected wife, doesn’t he?”
“If you are going to make fun of me,” remarked Edith with a show of anger, “I think we had better drop the subject.”
Alice got up and went over to her sister. “Oh, come now, Edith,” she said kindly, “don’t get so grouchy. I don’t see anything so tragic in all this. Suppose Billy does love you—what does he propose to do about it—run away with you?”
“Yes.” Her sister’s quiet tones had a ring of earnestness to them, of finality almost, that was alarming.
“The idea! Billy West of all people! I can’t believe it. I suppose you indignantly refused.”
“No, I didn’t. He told me how lonely he was; how bad it all made him feel; how it seemed so disloyalto Donald, but he—he couldn’t help it. He said I was everything in the world to him—that he had never loved any other woman, and never would—”
“Oh, I can imagine what he said,” interrupted Alice. “That’s easy. The question is, what did you say?”
Edith looked at her in a frightened way, seemingly for a moment unwilling to meet her glance. “Alice,” she said, slowly and very softly, “I—I told him I would go.”
“Edith, you really can’t mean it.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Rogers, nodding her head slowly. “Yes. That was over two weeks ago. We had gone down to Garden City in the auto, and had luncheon there. It was a wonderful day—so clear, and bright and beautiful. I had had a row with Donald, the night before. It was about going away this summer. When I met Billy the next day, everything seemed so different. He was telling me about a wonderful trip he was planning, to India, and the East. We talked it over like two children, and then all of a sudden he said he wouldn’t—he couldn’t go, unless I went, too—”
“It sounds fine.” Alice’s voice was not approving. “But what about Bobbie?”
Her sister passed her hand over her forehead and shivered slightly, glancing as she did so at the door of the adjoining bedroom. “Can’t you see that is why I cannot do it?” she cried with bitterness.
“Oh—you aren’t going to, then!” exclaimed Alice in a tone of relief. “I thought you said you had agreed to go.”
“I did. I must have been mad. I didn’t think of Bobbie, or of Donald, or anything, except that Billy and I loved each other, and were going away together, to be happier than I had ever dreamed of being in all my life. It all seemed so wonderful—almost like being born over again and living a new existence in a new and happier world. Then when I got home—” She hesitated, and a look of pain crossed her face.
“You weakened on the proposition, of course. That’s the effect of habit. It’s a wonderful thing how it keeps us in the straight and narrow path. I once heard a divorced woman say that it took her over a year to get out of the habit of being marriedto her first husband. What did Billy say when you told him you had changed your mind? I’ll bet he was furious.”
Again Mrs. Rogers seemed unable to meet her sister’s keen gaze. “I haven’t told him,” she exclaimed, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Good heavens! Why not?”
“Because he had gone away. He went to Denver that same night. Didn’t you know?”
“Now that you mention it, I believe I did hear you say that he was out of town. I thought it strange I hadn’t seen anything of him, lately. What did he go to Denver for? I must say, it seems rather inconsiderate of him, under the circumstances.”
“He went to Denver, Alice, because his property is there. He intends to sell out his interest in the mine, and close up his affairs so that we can go away together, don’t you see? He said he was going to dispose of everything he had, and put all the money in bonds, so that he would be free to go away, and stay away the rest of his life, if he felt like it.”
“Well, I must say,” cried her sister, “he seems to be in earnest, at any rate, even if you are not.”
“Alice, Billy West loves me as truly and deeply as any woman was ever loved.”
“Then it seems to me that you are treating his love pretty shabbily. Why don’t you tell him the truth?”
“It wasn’t until after he had gone away that I began to realize what a terrific mistake it would all be—that I would probably ruin his life as well as my own. I ought to have written him at once, and told him I couldn’t do what I had agreed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I was weak. I hadn’t the courage. Every day I put it off till the next.”
“Well, it isn’t too late yet, is it? If I were you, I would sit right down and write him a letter.”
Edith flung herself despairingly into a chair. “I don’t know whether it is too late or not,” she wailed. “That’s what is worrying me so. I haven’t slept for three nights—ever since I got his last letter.”
Alice went over to her sister’s chair, and put her arm about her shoulder. “Look here, Edith,” she said, her tone showing plainly her anxiety—“what’s all this about, anyway? You seem to beterribly upset. I can’t make head or tail of the matter. What’s worrying you so?”
“Three days ago,” said Edith, with quivering lips, “I got a letter from him. He’d been writing me every day up to then. That letter told me that he had appendicitis, and had gone to a hospital in Denver to be operated on. It was written last Thursday—that’s six days ago. Since then, I haven’t heard a single word.”
Alice appeared greatly relieved. “Is that all?” she cried. “I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. When anyone is lying flat on his back in a hospital, he doesn’t feel much like writing letters. Appendicitis isn’t very dangerous. I’ve known any number of people that have had it.”
“I know, but I can’t help worrying. I don’t know what to do.”
“I should think the first thing you would do would be to sit down and write him that letter.”
“I don’t dare to.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Suppose something has happened to him. How can I know who might get the letter? I don’t dare to write the things I’ve got to say to him.”
Alice considered a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you’d better. I didn’t think of that. Can’t you find out, some way, how he is?”
“I don’t know a soul in Denver.”
Her sister paused for a moment, thinking deeply. “What is to-day, Edith?” she suddenly inquired—“The twentieth?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“Then Emerson Hall got to Denver last night. He wrote me from St. Louis that he was going there this week, and would arrive the night of the nineteenth. He expects to be there several weeks. I might ask him.”
“Will you?” Mrs. Rogers looked at her eagerly. “I must find out somehow. It seems terrible, not to write to him, now that he is so sick. I—I care a lot for him, Alice, even if I have decided not to run away with him. Do you think Mr. Hall will do it for you?”
“Who, Emerson? Of course he will. He’d do anything for me. And, besides, I think he knows Billy slightly. They’re both Columbia men, you know.”
“Send him a wire. Ask him to go to the hospitalat once and find out how Billy is. I’ve got to know.”
“All right,” said Alice, as she made her way to the desk. “Got a blank?”
“I think there are some here.” Edith accompanied her sister to the desk. “Here’s one.” She handed Alice the blank.
“What shall I say?” asked Alice, as she seated herself at the desk.
“Just ask him to go to the City Hospital and inquire for William West. I’ll get the elevator boy to take it.” She stepped out into the hall and pressed the electric button. “How much is it for ten words—do you know?” she asked as she re-entered the room.
“Haven’t the least idea,” said her sister as she handed her the message she had written.
Edith glanced at it, took a dollar bill from her purse, and gave it and the message to the elevator boy who had answered her ring. “You’ll probably get the answer in the morning, Alice.” She turned to her sister as she closed the door. “You’ll bring it right down to me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And not a word to Donald—that goes withoutsaying. I wouldn’t have him know for anything.”
“All right. Billy is probably all right by this time, anyhow. As soon as you know that he is, I advise you to sit down and write him a nice, sensible letter—tell him you have reconsidered, and all that. You certainly owe it to him.”
“I will, Alice. I ought to have done it long ago. There’s the bell,” she added, wearily. “It’s probably mother.”
It was on a cold raw morning, that William West arrived in Denver, and, as he made his way slowly from the sleeper to the waiting ’bus, he shivered under his heavy overcoat. He was not glad to be back. Denver and all its associations had faded into the pale background of past memories—his face was set toward the future, a future that promised all that joy of living, of loving and of being loved in return, which he so eagerly desired.
It cut him bitterly to think of his treachery to Donald, a treachery in no way lessened by the fact that love was its motive, yet he argued to his conscience that the future happiness of both Edith and himself was at stake and demanded of him even the sacrifice of his friendship.
He did not go to his accustomed rooms at thePrairie, for he intended to make his stay in the city as short and uneventful as possible. There was but one purpose in his mind—to dispose of his holdings in the mine, resign his office as vice-presidentof the company and invest his entire fortune in safe and desirable bonds, upon the interest of which he would be able to carry out his future plans with no greater attention to business affairs than that involved in clipping off his quarterly or half-yearly coupons. Therefore he held aloof from his old friends, his former associations. If he should let the men at the club know of his presence in the city, they would not only take up a great deal of his time, but would inevitably inquire into his plans in a way that might easily prove embarrassing. He therefore betook himself to a quiet hotel, not usually patronized by the traveling public, and, after a smoking-hot breakfast, proceeded to the offices of the company.
West had anticipated that his associates in the Lone Star Mining Company would be the most probable purchasers of his holdings and for this reason had determined to offer them the first opportunity to buy. His interview with Atkinson, the president, was entirely satisfactory. While expressing deep regret at West’s desire to withdraw from active participation in the business, the astute Boston man grasped at once the opportunity to acquire at, ornear, par, a block of stock which would be worth double its present value in the course of a few years. He at once closed with West’s offer, taking an option on his holdings for ten days, during which time he expected to arrange for the necessary capital to carry out the purchase. A meeting of the board was called to act upon West’s resignation, and, when the latter left the office for luncheon, he had, as far as was possible, for the moment, completed the business that had brought him to Denver.
The following ten days were a nightmare. There was nothing to do, but write to Edith, it seemed, and to read her daily letters over and over, drawing from them new inspiration for his plans with each rereading. Slowly the ten days passed. Atkinson reported entire success in his plans for the syndicate he was forming to take over West’s holdings; within a week the latter expected to be flying eastward, leaving the matter of reinvesting his money until he should reach New York.
His anxiety to return as quickly as possible was accentuated by traces of a change of heart which he fancied he detected in some of Edith’s later letters. She had spoken of her fears for the success of theirplans—her duty to her husband, her boy. “Poor little girl,” thought West, “she needs me with her, to keep up her courage in these most trying hours of her life.”
The night of the ninth day he went to bed early, with a dull, insistent pain in his right side which he attributed to a cold, a result of the raw, unseasonable weather. In the morning the pain had increased; he had passed a restless, broken night, and arose feeling dizzy and half-sick. He determined to consult a doctor, but not until he had completed his business.
At ten o’clock he met Atkinson and his associates, and within an hour the stock had been delivered, and the certified check for close to half a million dollars deposited in the bank. A great sense of relief filled his mind—he was free, to seek happiness wherever in the broad expanse of the world he might find it. Yet beneath all his joy—his exultation, there throbbed a double sense of pain, the dull gnawing of conscience at his heart, and the sharp, insistent throbbing that, knife-like, shot through his right side. Clearly this latter was not a matter to be trifled with. He turned into the first doctor’s officethat met his eye, and joined the other unfortunates waiting in the anteroom.
The doctor would see him presently, the low-voiced maid informed him. He sat bolt upright in an uncomfortable chair and gripped his hands together fiercely as the sharp pangs of pain tore at his vitals. Would these people never be through? he wondered. From within the doctor’s office, shut off by glass doors, came the faint echoes of conversation; some unfortunate, no doubt, hearing the dread sentence of life or death, or perhaps only a nervous woman, being prescribed bread pills for a fancied indisposition. There were two men and a woman waiting ahead of him. They looked healthy enough; he wondered what they could have the matter with them that made their faces so grave.
For nearly an hour he was forced to wait in an agony of mind and body, until his turn came, and his thoughts were the thoughts of a man upon whom the hand of death has already laid its icy touch. He knew it was all nonsense—engendered of pain-racked nerves, yet his conscience smote him, and would not be stilled. The pain in his side spelled disaster, and he could not shake off the thought. Hehad never believed in the direct intervention of Providence in the affairs of mankind, yet here was he, at the moment when all his future, as he had planned it, lay smiling before him, stricken with an illness which, laugh at it as he would, he could not help fearing might mean an end to all his hopes.
He sat up and shook his head with a quick, nervous motion which had been characteristic of him since childhood. This was all the height of folly, he argued—the natural train of gloomy thoughts which resulted from his surroundings. Even the faint odor of carbolic acid, compounded with that of other unknown chemicals, was enough to make a man feel blue. He rose as the maid beckoned to him—the other consultations had happily been short.
Dr. Oliver was a man of few words. He had not time for more, for his practice was one of the largest in the city. He glanced at West’s pain-drawn face, listened to his few words of explanation, felt his side with practiced hands, and delivered his opinion in a few terse words. “Appendicitis,” he said quickly, “and an aggravated case. You must undergo an operation at once.”
Somehow or other West felt a sudden sense of reliefat these words. After all, an operation for appendicitis was not such a serious matter. He knew any number of people who had been through it. “I am stopping at a hotel,” he observed. “I do not live in Denver. I suppose I shall be obliged to go to a hospital at once.”
“By all means.” The doctor turned to his desk telephone and called a number. “I will arrange for an operation at the City Hospital, if you wish it.”
“Thank you,” replied West, “I do wish it.”
The doctor held a short conversation over the telephone. “I presume you can go to the hospital at once?” he inquired.
West nodded.
“I will send for a carriage,” the doctor went on, as he drew a thermometer from a leather case and placed it beneath West’s tongue. “Your case is an acute one, Mr. West, and we cannot afford to lose any time.” He again spoke sharply over the telephone, then, bidding West bare his arm, gave him a quick hypodermic injection which diffused a blessed sense of relief through every nerve of his pain-racked body. He sank upon a couch, and awaited the coming of the carriage. His thoughts were no longergloomy. He seemed to be floating in a sea of warmth, which caressed him pleasurably and filled him with a delicious feeling of well-being. Even the dull-figured flowers on the walls of the doctor’s office seemed alive, and glowing with color. The coming of the carriage seemed unimportant; nothing, in fact, seemed to matter, now that the gnawing of that terrible pain had left him.
It was Wednesday afternoon when West arrived at the City Hospital, and within two hours thereafter the operation was over, and he slowly returned to a sense of the reality of life, with a feeling of deadly nausea, and the pain once more throbbing in his right side. Over him bent a clear-eyed nurse, sympathetic as to his comfort, offering him a glass of water. Presently a physician joined her. West looked at them without interest and from the jumbled impressions of the day once more passed into a dreamless sleep.
It was in the early morning that he first began to think of Edith. Her letters would be awaiting him at his hotel. He must send for them—he must write to her and tell her of all that had happened. He felt that she would be alarmed at not hearingfrom him, for, until the day before, he had not failed to post a letter to her each night, telling her of the events of the day.
In response to his repeated requests, the nurse sent a messenger boy for his mail, and, when the latter returned, she read him Edith’s letter at his request. He could not read it himself—he lay flat on his back, in semi-darkness, and even the slight effort of moving his hands seemed to send innumerable sharp quivers of pain through every portion of his body.
The nurse read the letter haltingly, as one reads an unfamiliar handwriting; it was signed, like all the letters, with initials only, and told him of Edith’s anxiety to see him, of her hopes and fears, and all the other foolish things that women write to men they love. To him it seemed a message from heaven, for he loved her very deeply, and her slightest word became a treasure to him, invested with a new significance; lifted from its commonplace surroundings; something to ponder over, and think about all through the long, weary day. He sent a reply, treating lightly of his illness, so as not to alarm her needlessly. The nurse carefully wrote itdown for him at his dictation. He hesitated when it came to telling the woman the address—he did not wish to compromise Edith, to give her name to a stranger. There was no other way, however, and, after all, he believed that, within a month at the outside, they would be standing hand in hand at the taffrail of some great ocean liner, watching the towering skyline of New York as it disappeared in the hazy distance along with their troubles and cares. The mere fact that their secret was known, now, to a hospital nurse, could do no harm; in a few weeks all the world would know it, but they would be in each other’s arms, and the opinion of the world would not matter very much.
The day seemed strangely long and he was glad when night came, and with it some respite from his pain. He felt tired, terribly tired, and his head throbbed with a burning fever. They gave him things to make him sleep, and water for his cracking lips. As the evening wore on even the thoughts of the morning’s letter no longer interested him. He turned his face to the wall, and tried not to think of anything at all. After a while he slept, while the nurse and the doctor on his evening round spoketogether softly, and in grave tones, with many anxious glances in his direction.
The next morning his fever was better, and the letter brought him from his hotel made the day seem for a time full of joy and brightness, but after a little while a great sense of weariness overcame him. Nothing seemed to matter much; whether he lived or died. He was conscious only of a desire to sleep—how long, even though forever, he did not care in the very least.
About noon he was roused by the approach of someone toward his bed, and opened his eyes to see Doctor Oliver standing beside him. The doctor looked very grave as he took his patient’s hand, his fingers mechanically feeling the rapid, weak pulse. “Mr. West,” said the doctor, “I think you should let your family know of your illness.”
West tried to raise his hand, then fell back with a sigh of weariness. “Am I as sick as all that?” he inquired faintly, as he gazed into the doctor’s inscrutable eyes.
“You are a very sick man, Mr. West. I do not wish to needlessly alarm you, but it would be best to communicate with your people, and put your affairsin order, so that, whatever happens, you will be ready to meet it.”
The sick man looked at the doctor with a long, intent look. His lips quivered, his hand tightened fearfully upon the one that held it. “You mean that I am going to die?” he asked bravely. “Tell me the truth, doctor. I would rather know.” The doctor nodded his head slowly, but made no other reply.
West was a long time in realizing the truth, yet it seemed as though he had always known it. He had never quite believed that all the happiness he looked forward to so gladly would ever really come true. It seemed almost too much to ask of fate. And now it was all ended. He must die, here alone, with not even Edith’s presence to gladden his few remaining hours. For a long time he looked at the doctor with burning eyes, yet no words would come to say that which he felt. The doctor must have understood, for he, too, stood silent, his eyes fixed tenderly upon the dying man’s face. At last he spoke.
“You should send for your people, Mr. West,” he said.
“I have no people, doctor.”
“Is there no one you would care to see?”
“No—no one that could come to me here.” He thought of Edith—so far away—even if she could come to him, he knew there would not be time. He looked once more at the grave face which bent over his. “How long have I to live, doctor?” he asked.
“I am afraid the time is not very long, Mr. West. If you have any business affairs that you wish to attend to, I would advise you to do so at once.”
Business affairs! What business affairs could interest him now? His fortune lay in the Central National Bank, and beyond some distant relatives in New Hampshire whom he had never seen, and who scarcely knew of his existence, there was no one on earth to whom he could leave it. No one? The thought flashed through his mind—what about Edith? She was nearer and dearer to him than all the relatives in the world—she must have this money; at least it would bring her comfort and the ability to make her life what she had always wished it to be. He raised his hand, and began to speak. “You must send Austin Williams here, doctor. He is a lawyer in the Pioneer Building. You can call him up on the telephone.” He sank back, exhaustedfrom the effort of speaking. Williams had done work for him in the past. It would be a small thing, to make his will. The doctor and the nurse would act as witnesses. He asked the former to hurry—there was no time to be lost—he felt his strength ebbing away even as he spoke.
The long silence that followed until the lawyer arrived was unbroken save by the labored breathing of the man in the bed. What thoughts passed through his pain-tortured brain—what agony of regret, of remorse, of self-accusation, he did not show by word or look. He lay with his eyes closed, the seal of death upon his forehead. At last the lawyer arrived, and in a few moments was apprised of the sad circumstances which had called him. He gripped West’s hand with a silent pressure of sympathy, and listened to the broken words that told him of last wishes. His entire property was to be left to Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City. That was all. The lawyer called for pen and paper, and rapidly drew up the short, concise will. West’s attorney in New York, Ogden Brennan by name, of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, was named as executor.
Within fifteen minutes the will had been drawn, signed and duly witnessed, and William West had completed his last earthly task. He bade Williams a steady farewell, and then turned toward the wall. “I’m so tired!” he moaned, then became quiet. They thought he was sleeping, and did not disturb him. He was, but it was the sleep from which there is no awakening.
The bells in Old Trinity were chiming the hour of five and all New York began to turn its face homeward. The human tide flowed from offices to elevators, from elevators to corridors and thence in an ever growing stream toward the subway and elevated stations. The sun, like a round red Chinese lamp, was poised above the gathering mists of the Jersey shore, ready for its plunge behind the distant hills. Office boys and bank presidents, stenographers and captains of industry fought democratically for seats in the overcrowded trains, while over all sounded the shrill call of the newsboys as they disposed of the afternoon papers. Down-town New York had completed another day—the tides now moved on to Jersey, Harlem, Brooklyn, or the great center of life that throbs unceasingly about Times Square.
Against this ever increasing torrent of humanity Mr. Ogden Brennan of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, Attorneys-at-Law, struggledirritably, as he forced his way from a down-town subway train, and hurried to the firm’s extensive suite of offices in Wall Street, near Broadway.
He gave a quick glance about as he entered, and, making rapidly for his private office, called sharply to young Garvan, one of his assistants, to ask Mr. Shaw to join him at once. Mr. Brennan was tall and gaunt-looking, and peremptory alike in his physical and mental processes, and, when he entered his office, as he did on this occasion, in a more than usually energetic fashion, everybody, down to William the office boy, was galvanized into an unwonted activity.
Mr. Shaw, the junior member of the firm, with a dinner on at his club, had already donned his overcoat and was giving some parting instructions to his stenographer as young Garvan entered and delivered the message. He took up his hat with a sigh—he was of a more placid and phlegmatic temperament than his partner—and, picking up his afternoon paper, folded it carefully, selected his walking stick from the stand near the door, and proceeded in a leisurely manner to Mr. Brennan’s private office.
The firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw was a large one, and its principal practice lay in the handling of the affairs of corporations and estates. Criminal practice knew it not, but it was said of Mr. Shaw that he could draw a better contract, or handle a difficult merger, more successfully than any other lawyer in New York, which was saying much. Mr. Brennan dealt with estates and wills—the latter were his hobby. He claimed that none drawn by himself had ever been broken.
As Mr. Shaw entered his partner’s private office, with a bland look of inquiry upon his well-bred countenance, he observed Mr. Brennan throw down upon his desk, with an exclamation of annoyance, a thin legal document, comprising but two pages, written, as he noted, in longhand, instead of the usual typewritten characters. Mr. Brennan looked up with a frown.
“Sam,” he said hurriedly, “you know that young Billy West? He’s dead.”
Mr. Shaw put on his eyeglasses, and regarded Mr. Brennan curiously. “I don’t seem to remember him,” he replied. “Who was he?”
“Son of old Josiah West, the patent attorney.He made a fortune in mining operations in Colorado. His father used to be a client of mine, twenty years ago. Don’t you recollect the suits he brought against the paper trust?”
“Before my time, I think,” replied Mr. Shaw.
“Well, it’s not important now. I’ve been wanting to see you about the matter all day, but that case of the Webster estate has kept me on the jump. Young West died in Denver last Friday. I’ve just received a copy of his will from an attorney out there by the name of Williams.” Mr. Brennan referred to the papers impatiently, adjusting his glasses with a jerk. “Austin Williams. He writes a long letter, telling me of West’s death in the City Hospital there, following an operation for appendicitis. Very sudden affair. West was interested in a mine out there, but had sold out his holdings and put the proceeds in bank. About half a million, I believe. I’m executor of his estate.” He looked at Mr. Shaw with a frown.
“What of it, Ogden? Simple enough affair, I should think. No contesting claims, I hope, or anything of that sort.”
“None, so far as I can see. It’s the terms of thewill that I can’t quite understand, and they impress me unpleasantly.”
“What are they?” Mr. Shaw regarded his partner wearily. He wondered why Brennan troubled to explain to him all these apparently unimportant details, just when he was in an especial hurry to get up-town and change in time for dinner. “Is there anything in the matter that requires action to-night?” he inquired. “I have a rather important engagement, and—”
“Sam,” interrupted his partner, “I won’t keep you long. My object in telling you of this matter is to find out if by any chance you know a man in town named Donald Rogers. The name, somehow, sounded familiar to me, and I thought possibly you might be able to tell me something about him. You know everybody, almost.”
“Rogers,” repeated Mr. Shaw to himself, slowly; “Donald Rogers. Isn’t he a mechanical engineer? There was a chap by that name who had something to do with the Sunbury Cement case. Expert witness, if I remember rightly. Seemed a very decent sort of a fellow, and knew his business. We won the case on his testimony. What’s he got to do withit?” The junior partner took a chair, and laid his cane, newspaper and gloves carefully upon the desk. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Let’s have the details.”
Mr. Brennan took off his glasses and nervously put them on again. “This will that West made, upon his deathbed—” he picked up the document from the desk and regarded it distastefully—“leaves his entire estate to a woman.” He paused and glanced at his partner as though to note the effect of his statement.
Mr. Shaw turned restlessly in his chair. He evidently saw nothing strange in this. “Well, why not?” he asked. “I don’t see anything about that to cause anyone any alarm. It had to be either a woman or a man, I suppose, if he left no children.”
“The strange part about the affair, Sam, is this: Young West was not married. He left this money to the wife of another man with whom he was madly in love. So far as I can learn, she was equally in love with him. They were planning an elopement, or something of the sort, when he was stricken with this illness. He insisted upon leaving her everything.”
“You don’t say so! Who is she?” asked Mr. Shaw, for the first time manifesting an interest in his partner’s story.
Mr. Brennan took up the will, and, opening it, read aloud, “Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City.”
Mr. Shaw arose. He took up from the desk a telephone directory and consulted it with interest. “Donald Evan Rogers,” he presently read, “mechanical engineer, Columbia Building.” He put down the book and glanced at his partner. “That’s the man. I remember him well now. Bright young fellow, and very hardworking. I took quite a fancy to him. Rather a queer state of things, I must say.” He whistled softly to himself.
“Decidedly so. I have no choice in the matter, of course, but I fancy this document is likely to cause considerable trouble in the Rogers’ household.”
Mr. Shaw wrinkled his brow in a frown. “You don’t suppose for a moment he’d let his wife take this money—unless, of course,” he added reflectively, “she intends to leave him.”
Mr. Brennan threw the will upon the table with a snort. “That’s the whole trouble, Sam. Thewoman had been writing young West every day. Williams has sent me all her letters to him, along with his other papers. I’ve glanced through some of them. She had evidently made up her mind to leave her husband at once, as soon as West got back from Denver.”
“I don’t see that there is anything for you to do but to go ahead with the matter as the law requires. You are not supposed to know anything about West’s relations with this man’s wife. Possibly her husband doesn’t know, either. It is none of your affair.”
“I know it, but doesn’t it occur to you, Sam, that this is likely to explode a bombshell in this young fellow’s home?”
“Did West know Rogers well?” inquired Mr. Shaw.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you call on them this evening and find out? Possibly the husband may see nothing queer in this money being left to his wife. West may have been a friend of his. The woman will say nothing, you may be sure of that.”
“It’s the only thing to do, I know, but I can’tsay that I look forward to the interview with much pleasure. I thought at first of asking Mrs. Rogers to come here, and telling her the whole story; but, if I do, she will of course ask me to keep quiet about the matter, and that will put me in the position of aiding and abetting her in deceiving her husband. I want him to be present, when I see her.”
“Then I would suggest that you go to their house to-night. You will most probably find the husband at home.” He took up the city directory and searched its columns carefully. “Here you are,” he exclaimed at length. “Roxborough Apartments, One Hundred and Tenth Street. Drop in on them this evening, why don’t you?”
“I suppose I had better,” observed Mr. Brennan slowly, “though I must say it is a damnably disagreeable task. The case presents some extremely unpleasant problems.”
Mr. Shaw picked up his stick, his gloves, and his newspaper, and began slowly to button up his coat. “Decidedly so,” he observed. “I can’t say I like it. This woman has been on the point of eloping with another man, who leaves her a large fortune. She might of course refuse to accept it, or at least disposeof it in some way, but I fail to see how she can do so, without arousing her husband’s suspicions. If, on the other hand, she can convince him that West left her the money from pure friendship, and goodness of heart, she places herself in the position of accepting the money of her lover to spend upon her husband—her children—if she has any. Pretty rough on the husband, I must say. No self-respecting man could permit such a thing. The worst of it is that we have got to be a party to it. What sort of a woman can she be, I wonder?”
“That is just the thing we must determine. Understand, this woman knows nothing of the will as yet. I confess I feel considerable curiosity as to what her course of action will be when she learns of it. It’s a mighty difficult position for any woman to be in, there’s no denying that. She may, of course, refuse to accept it at all.”
“She couldn’t very well. It’s hers by law.”
“Of course, I understand that. But she could dispose of it in some way, possibly.”
“Not without its looking very queer to her husband.” Mr. Shaw moved toward the office door. “I guess I wouldn’t worry about the matter, Ogden, ifI were you. Let them fight it out themselves. After all, it’s their funeral, not ours, you know. If there is anything I can do in the matter, let me know. Good-night. I’ve got to hurry.” He passed out, the expression on his face indicating a sort of morose satisfaction. Perhaps he was congratulating himself upon the fact that he was not married.
Mr. Brennan put the will into his pocket, called in his stenographer, and spent half an hour in clearing his desk for the night. He tried to dismiss the matter of the will from his mind as he rode up-town in the subway, but it persisted with annoying regularity, and prevented his usual enjoyment of his evening paper. He was a man whose gaunt and forbidding exterior masked a nature innately kind, and he deeply regretted the circumstances that forced him to play the part in the affairs of the Rogers’ family which now confronted him. The more he thought of the matter, the more difficult it became to evolve any course of action that would obviate the apparently inevitable crash. The law required that he, as executor of West’s estate, should turn over all the property to Mrs. Rogers, and that duty he could in no way evade. His conscience told himthat to do so in such a way as to hoodwink or deceive her husband would be wrong, and yet he hesitated to put the matter in a light that would result in a complete disruption of the Rogers’ domestic affairs. It spoiled his enjoyment of his dinner, which, being a bachelor, he ate at his club, and it clung to him like a cloak of gloom all the way up to the Roxborough. It was close to half-past eight when he entered the vestibule of the apartment house, and, after inquiring whether Mrs. Rogers was in, sent up his card by the elevator boy.
Mrs. Pope did not often spend an evening at her son-in-law’s. She lived some distance down-town, at a boarding-house kept by an old acquaintance of hers, on Fifty-ninth Street, and she had an aversion to the trip to Harlem. She often told the girls that New York stopped at Fifty-ninth Street and that she could never endure living beyond it.
Her object, on this particular occasion, was to induce Donald, if possible, to change his mind with reference to the seashore cottage which she was so anxious to take for the summer.
She came in puffing audibly, accompanied by Alice. Her usual dissatisfied expression was in evidence. Mrs. Pope was chronically dissatisfied with everything—her income, her life, her increasing flesh, her daughter’s marriage, and the weather.
“Edith,” she announced, as she entered the room, “the elevator service in this place gets worse every day. I’ve been waiting downstairs for a car forover five minutes, and the boy had the impertinence to tell me he had been out running errands for one of the tenants. You ought to complain about it.”
“I’m sorry, mother,” said Edith, as she helped in the removal of Mrs. Pope’s coat.
“Why don’t they have a hall boy?” demanded her mother, glaring at Edith as though it were her daughter’s particular fault that this service was lacking.
“I suppose it’s on account of the expense.”
“Humph! That’s one of the joys of living in such cheap apartments. When I lived at the BolingbrokeArms—”
“Please, mother, don’t tell us about it again,” exclaimed Alice impatiently. The story of her mother’s former grandeur was an oft told tale in the family.
“Alice, you are impertinent.” Her mother’s tone was deeply aggrieved. “Before your dear father died, we had everything heart could wish. It is not strange that I find myself unable to get accustomed to Harlem flats.” She turned to Edith, who had taken up her sewing. “Edith, where’s your husband?”
“He went out to post some letters, mother. He’ll be back presently.”
Mrs. Pope glared about the room with an impatient snort. “Huh!” she exclaimed. “I don’t wish to make unkind remarks about Donald behind his back, but, when I consented to your marriage, I certainly never expected to see you come to this. I’ve just come from the Harrisons’. They have taken an apartment in the St. George. You ought to see it, Edith. Persian rugs all over the place, real-lace curtains, Circassian-walnut furniture in the dining-room, cold-storage ice-box, vacuum cleaner free every week. It’s perfect, and only two thousand a year. I couldn’t help thinking that that was the kind of a home I hoped to see my daughter in, instead of a fifty-dollar-a-month tenement.” She sank heavily into a chair, and emitted a windy sigh.
Alice threw down the magazine which she had been looking over and laughed. “Well, mother, you may see it yet, you know. I’m still in the running.”
“Not unless you give up your ridiculous idea of marrying that young Emerson Hall, and pick out a man with some money. He need not be a millionaire, but he at least ought to be able to keep you in thestyle to which you have always been accustomed.”
Alice laughed. “Don’t forget, mother,” she said with a mischievous look, “that he has been to our boarding-house. I guess he’ll be able to match that, at least.”
“Alice, I see no necessity of your reminding me of our present poverty. When your father, my poor, dear J. B., was alive, we lived just as well as the Harrisons’.”
“I know it, mother. That’s one reason why father left debts, instead of a bank account.”
“Alice, how can you speak so of your poor father? He was the best husband I ever knew. He never refused me anything.” She took out her handkerchief and applied it gently to her eyes. “I shall never get over his untimely end—never.”
“Don’t mind me, mother. Poor old dad was the best father in the world.” Alice went over to her mother and patted her consolingly on the shoulder.
“He certainly was,” continued Mrs. Pope. “I never had to ask him for a dollar. He anticipated my every wish. One of the last things he said was, ‘Mary, see that the girls marry well.’ I often think of it, Edith, when I look at you.”
“Oh, well, mother,” rejoined Edith, “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to marry any man just for his money.”
“It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man, my dear, as with a poor one. I always told you that. With your looks, you might have had anyone you pleased.”
“How about me, mother?” asked Alice mischievously.
“You certainly ought to do better than that young Hall, as I’ve told you before. I doubt if he has five thousand a year.”
“Four, mother, I understand.”
“Then he is worse than impossible. Four thousand a year! Your father never spent less than fifteen and we had hard enough work to make ends meet as it was, but I always had my maid, and my carriage. I’m an old woman now, and it doesn’t make any difference if I have to do without—though I can’t say I’ve ever become used to it—but you are young; you ought to have pleasure, luxury, the good things of life. Look at Edith, poor child, stuck here in this awful place without a cent she can call her own. It ought to be a lesson to you.”
“Sort of horrible example, I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Rogers, with a trace of bitterness in her voice.
“Well, you’re not happy, are you?” asked her mother, turning on her suddenly. “Why should you be? Donald may be a very faithful husband—at least I don’t know anything to the contrary, but why he should expect a girl like you to bow down and worship him, just for permitting you to cook his meals, is more than I can see. If he only had a little more spirit, he would get out and make money, the way other men do, instead of being content to live on little better than a clerk’s hire. I don’t like to hurt your feelings, my dear, any more than I can help, but you know I’ve always thought him a pretty poor sort of a stick.”
“I know you’ve never liked Donald, mother. Let’s talk of something else.”
“What we really came for, Edith, was to talk over our plans for the summer.” Alice drew up her chair and looked significantly at her mother.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Pope. “I know that Donald hasn’t given his consent, but I intend to talk to him about the matter myself.” Mrs. Pope looked at her daughter as though she believed the matteras good as settled already. “Alice and I are paying thirty-five dollars a week where we are. If you and Bobbie could pay twenty-five that would make—let me see—” she paused, absorbed in the effort of mental calculation—“two hundred and sixty a month.”
“Two hundred and forty, mother,” corrected Alice.
“Oh, well—two hundred and forty, then. We could rent a bungalow, furnished, for a hundred a month; that would leave a hundred and forty for living expenses—we wouldn’t need to keep a girl. Donald could come down for week ends.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do it, mother. Donald says he can’t afford it. I told you what he said.”
“Edith, for goodness’ sake, have a little spirit. Your health demands a change. Your child’s health demands it. And, besides, if you don’t come, Alice and I shall be obliged to go to a hotel and live in a couple of stuffy rooms. We couldn’t afford to take a cottage, just for the two of us.”
“We can’t spare the money, mother. I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything more.”
“What on earth does Donald do with his money, Edith? He certainly doesn’t spend it on you.”
“He is investing it in a glass factory, in West Virginia, I believe.”
Mrs. Pope looked supremely disgusted. “Glass factory!” she snorted. “Isn’t that just like him. He thinks little enough of your happiness. Poor Edith! My poor child! You certainly are to be pitied.”
“He hopes to make a great deal out of it, some day.”
“Fiddlesticks! He might just as well throw it in the street. My poor dear J. B. always said that Government bonds were the only safe investment. Glass factory, indeed!” She seemed unable to contain her indignation.
The rattle of a key in the door warned her of Donald’s approach. She composed her face in a smile, and rose to greet him as he entered. “My dear Donald,” she exclaimed effusively, “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Good-evening, mother. You don’t mind?” Donald replied pleasantly, holding up the cigar he was smoking.
“Oh, not in the least.” Mrs. Pope resumed her chair with a self-satisfied air. “My poor dear J. B.always smoked the very best Havanas. I love the odor of a good Havana cigar.”
Donald went over to the desk and seated himself in his accustomed chair. “I’m afraid you won’t like this one, then,” he said, with a short laugh. “Pure Connecticut, five straight. I can’t afford the imported kind.”
Mrs. Pope took no notice of his remarks on the subject of cigars. She looked from Alice to Edith, as though to gather courage, preened herself with a conscious effort, then plunged into the fray. “Donald,” she began, “we were just speaking of our plans for the summer. I know you will be interested on Edith’s account, and Bobbie’s. The poor child doesn’t look very well. Edith tells me he has a racking cough. Now let me tell you what we propose to do. Edith thinks it a perfectly splendid plan.”
“Mother, you know what I told you,” began Mrs. Rogers warningly.
“Never mind, child. I wish to place the matter before Donald in a businesslike way. I am an old woman, but I am willing to sacrifice myself for my children’s sake.”
“I couldn’t think of letting you do anything ofthe sort on Edith’s account,” remarked Donald dryly.
“Edith is my child, Donald. I must think of her welfare. I propose to rent a cottage at the seashore—a little bungalow—”
“I know all about it, mother,” interrupted Donald, with a look of weariness. “Edith has told me. We can’t do it this summer.”
“But, Donald, surely you realize what it would mean for her, and for your child?”
“Quite as well as you do. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. We have to make sacrifices now, for the sake of the future.” He turned to his desk, and began to look over some papers which he drew from his pocket.
“But surely you realize—you can’t mean—” stammered Mrs. Pope feebly, her face reddening angrily.
“I shouldn’t say anything more about it, mother, if I were you,” remarked Edith.
Mrs. Pope sank back into her chair, with an air of deep resignation. “Very well,” she said, as though allowing the whole matter to pass from her hands into those of Divine Providence. “I’ve tried to domy duty. If anything happens to Bobbie, remember that, Donald.” It was quite clear that whatever might happen she would regard as solely her son-in-law’s fault.
“I shall,” remarked Donald, going on with his reading.
There was an ominous silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock upon the mantel. It was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the door-bell. Donald rose and went over to the door. The others heard him talking with someone outside. Presently he turned, with a card in his hand. “The boy says there is a gentleman downstairs to see you, Edith,” he said to his wife.
Edith rose in surprise. “To see me?” she asked. “Who is it?”
Her husband looked at the card. “Mr. Ogden Brennan, the card says. Do you know him?”
“No, I never heard the name before.” She came over to Donald and, taking the card, looked at it curiously. “Perhaps we had better ask him to come up.”
“Send him up,” said Donald to the boy at the door, as he closed it.
“I wonder who he can be?” Edith asked in mystified tone.
“Possibly a bill-collector,” said Mrs. Pope sarcastically.
“Hardly, at this time of the night.” Donald looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight-thirty.” He took a match from the desk, and carefully relighted his half-smoked cigar.
Mrs. Pope rose. “Alice, I think we had better be going,” she remarked, with a frown.
“Nonsense, mother. Sit down. You’ve only just come. There is some beer on the ice.” She paused, and Mrs. Pope relapsed into her chair with sudden promptness. “Very well, Edith, if you insist,” she said resignedly.
“Let’s make a welsh rabbit,” suggested Alice, looking up from her magazine. As she spoke the door-bell rang. Her sister hurried over to the door and threw it open.
Mr. Brennan came in with a slight show of hesitation, looking about him curiously. The household of the persons who were to have the spending of West’s fortune had a peculiar interest for him. What sort of persons were they? he had asked himselfhalf a hundred times since he left his office. “This is Mrs. Rogers’ apartment?” he inquired, as he came in.
“Yes,” answered Edith, returning his glance of scrutiny with interest.
“I wish to see Mrs. Rogers.”
“I am Mrs. Rogers.”
“I am here on a matter of business, Mrs. Rogers.” He glanced about the room, embracing the others in his comprehensive survey. “Of course, if you have guests, I could perhaps come at some other time.”
“I hardly think it will be necessary,” remarked Edith nervously. She had not the least idea what this dignified-looking old gentleman could want with her, but it was clearly evident that he was neither a book-agent nor a bill-collector. She was conscious of a growing presentiment of evil and, in her perplexity, she turned to her husband. “Mr. Brennan,” she said, “this is my husband.”
The two men bowed. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brennan,” said Donald, coming toward him. “You have business with my wife, I understand.”
“Yes, Mr. Rogers. Business of great importance.”Mr. Brennan’s tone was significant—ominous.
Donald took the lawyer’s coat and hat. “My mother and sister, Mr. Brennan,” he observed. “Won’t you take a seat?”
Brennan bowed, but declined the chair. “I shall keep you but a moment. My business is with your wife, Mr. Rogers, but I came at this hour, in the hope of finding you at home as well. The matter concerns you both. I am an attorney, of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, of Number 11 Wall Street.”
“Yes?” replied Donald, looking in surprise at Edith. She with Alice, and the mother, who had risen from her chair, stood regarding the visitor with interest.
“I regret to say,” continued Mr. Brennan, in an even tone, “that I have come upon a very sad errand.”
The fears which had been torturing Edith all the evening suddenly took a more concrete form. “What!” she cried, clutching at her breast—“I—I don’t understand.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. William West,were you not, Mrs. Rogers?” He turned to her with a look of interrogation.
Edith stared at him in wide-eyed terror, her fingers convulsively clutching the lace at her throat. “Were!” she cried. “Were!” then relapsed into silence. Donald seemed surprised at her agitation; to him it meant nothing. He turned to Mr. Brennan. “Certainly. Billy West. He’s one of my best friends.”
“It is with the deepest regret that I am obliged to inform you of his death.” Mr. Brennan’s voice was not so even as it had been, and held a note of sorrow. He had been genuinely fond of West, and the latter’s death was a great shock to him.
Edith shrank back with a cry, her hand over her eyes, as though trying to ward off this sudden blow. Her sister put her arm about her. “Edith!” she whispered, and spoke to her in a low voice. The others were too much surprised by the lawyer’s announcement to give much attention to her agitation.
Donald was the first to speak. “Dead! Billy West dead! Impossible!” He gazed at Mr. Brennan with a stare of incredulity.
“Unfortunately not, Mr. Rogers. I only wish it were. Mr. West died suddenly last Friday in Denver, Colorado, following an operation for appendicitis.”
In his sudden realization of his friend’s death, Donald turned away, the tears very near the surface. “Poor old chap!” he muttered. “Poor old Billy!” He looked over at his wife. “Edith, isn’t it terrible? Think of it, Billy West dead.”
“Why do you come to tell us? How do you know?” asked Edith, staring at Mr. Brennan in a frightened way.
“I have been Mr. West’s attorney for a number of years. I received word of his death this morning.”
“Poor young man! I always liked him so much!” Mrs. Pope assumed an expression of deep solicitude. “He was very well off, was he not, Mr. Brennan?”
“Very,” answered Brennan shortly, then turned to Donald. “You knew Mr. West very well, I take it?”
“Intimately. We had been bosom friends for years. He was in my class at college. I loved him like a brother. He had a heart of gold, Mr. Brennan.Of all the men I know, he was the squarest and best friend. You cannot realize what his death means to us. Edith, isn’t it sad?”
Edith began to cry. “I—I can’t realize it,” she sobbed; “it seems so terrible.”
Brennan drew a thin, folded document from his pocket, and regarded it critically through his eyeglasses. “He must have thought a great deal of you—and Mrs. Rogers,” he observed, glancing at Donald.
“I am quite sure he did, Mr. Brennan, but why—?”
Brennan interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “I will explain,” he said. “Before Mr. West died, he made a will. It was drawn up by an attorney in Denver who, acting on Mr. West’s instructions, at once communicated with me. I am the executor of the estate.”
“But, Mr. Brennan, how does the matter concern us?” Donald was becoming a trifle impatient under the continued strain of Mr. Brennan’s significant manner.
“The best way to answer that, Mr. Rogers,” said Brennan, adjusting his eyeglasses, and unfoldingthe document he held in his hand, “is to read the will.”
With a sudden start, Edith dashed the tears from her eyes and turned toward the lawyer. She was conscious of a horrible fear—a feeling of dread lest this document, to which Mr. Brennan evidently attached such sinister importance, might contain something, she knew not what, which would apprise Donald of her relations with the dead man, and, like a voice from the grave blast her whole life. “Why is it necessary to read it?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.
Brennan turned and observed her gravely through his glasses. “Because, Mrs. Rogers,” he replied, “this document concerns you most intimately. It isn’t very long.” Again he took up the will and prepared to read.
“I—I don’t want to hear it,” sobbed Edith.
“Edith, what is wrong with you? Why should Mr. Brennan not read the will if it contains matters which concern us?” Donald turned to the lawyer. “You must pardon my wife, Mr. Brennan. This sad news has completely upset her. Go ahead.” He went over to Edith and, taking her arm, led herto a chair. “You had better sit down, Edith, and let Mr. Brennan finish what he has to say. There is no occasion for all this excitement.”
“But, Donald—listen—I—”
“Never mind now. We are detaining Mr. Brennan.” His voice was impatient, and he looked at her curiously. “Go ahead, sir,” he said, “and let us have the matter over with, whatever it is, as quickly as possible.”
Brennan, clearing his throat with a nervous cough, took up the will and began to read.
“‘I, William West, being of sound mind, do hereby make this my last will and testament.
“‘I give, devise and bequeath all my property, whether real or personal, and wherever situated, to Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City.’”
He paused, and glanced about to note the effect of his words. Edith had slowly risen from her chair, and her face was a picture of horrified amazement. Donald, almost equally surprised, looked from the lawyer to her, apparently unable to speak. Alice and Mrs. Pope were dumfounded. The whole party stood in silence regarding Mr. Brennan as thoughthey could scarcely grasp what they had heard.
Suddenly the tenseness of the moment was broken. Edith had come slowly toward Brennan, her hand outstretched, her face white with horror. “No!—my God! No!” she cried, then tottered and would have fallen had her mother not stepped quickly forward and supported her. “I can’t take it—I can’t take it!” she cried, in spite of her mother’s attempts to quiet her.
“The remainder of the will,” continued Brennan coldly, as he folded up the document and placed it in his pocket, “refers only to my appointment as executor.” He removed his glasses and looked at Donald.
“You mean that he has left everything to my wife?” gasped the latter, faintly.
“Everything.”
“No! No!” cried Edith.
“Be quiet, my child,” Mrs. Pope said soothingly, then turned to the lawyer. “How much did he leave, Mr. Brennan?” she asked.
“I cannot say exactly, madam. It will be impossible to tell until the estate is settled up. Probably not less than half a million.”