It was soon noised about that John Graves was in town. Ten years before he had been a frequent visitor at the house of Mr. Lane, and he was still remembered by many.

Among those who were interested in his return was Enoch Perkins, the lawyer who had in his safe the letter which Mrs. Lane had lost relating to his claim on the estate. He had kept it carefully, not knowing whether it would ever be available. Now it seemed the time had come.

Mr. Graves was staying at the house of John Nugent, but he had not yet mentioned the business matter which he had discussed with Mrs. Lane. He was considering what he would do about it. Not that it would seriously embarrass him to lose the money, for he was a rich man outside of this sum. But he felt that at any rate he must substantiate his claim and prove that he was no impostor.

Graves was passing the office of the lawyer the next day, when Mr. Perkins called him to come in.

"I don't know if you know me, Mr. Graves," he said, "but when you were last here I had just opened an office. This is my card."

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Perkins," said Graves, politely.

"Will you pardon me for my abruptness, but have you not a claim—a large claim—on the estate of the late Mr. Lane?"

John Graves eyed him in amazement.

"How do you know this?" he asked.

"Let me show you."

He opened his safe and drew out the sheet of paper addressed by Mr. Lane to his wife.

As John Graves read it his eyes brightened and his face showed the relief he felt.

"So my friend was true to me, after all," he murmured.

"Have you been to see Mrs. Lane?" asked the lawyer, shrewdly.

"Yes."

"And she refuses to entertain your claim?"

"Yes. But how did you come into possession of this paper?"

The lawyer told him briefly.

"I foresaw what would happen," he said, "and I have kept this paper carefully for nearly two years."

"Thank you. You have done me a great service."

"The estate is not yet settled. That is, the final accounts have not been handed into the court. Mrs. Lane doubtless thinks she will be able to confiscate your claim. I have heard that she intends to go to Europe when her accounts are filed."

"She seems a very unprincipled woman. I am sorry that my old friend succeeded so poorly in his matrimonial venture."

"She did show not herself in her true colors till after his death. He died believing her to be a woman of good principles."

"I am glad of that."

"If you will put the matter in my hands, Mr. Graves, I will manage it for you."

"I will authorize you to do so. I do not care to see her again."

Mrs. Lane was considerably surprised to receive this letter, signed, "Enoch Perkins, Attorney-at-Law":

"Madam—You are requested to call at my office on business of great importance."

She was disposed at first to take no notice of the letter, but a feeling of uneasiness finally induced her to answer the summons.

"Mr. Perkins," she said, haughtily, as she entered the office, "I have received a strange letter from you."

"Be seated, madam, and I will let you know why I wrote. I am acting for Mr. John Graves, who has a large claim against you."

"I thought as much. He did me the honor to call yesterday and make a most preposterous claim against my husband's estate."

"Why preposterous?"

"It is very clear that he is trying to swindle me!"

"The claim is genuine."

"Let him prove it then!"

"He is prepared to do so."

"How?" she asked, a little startled.

"On your husband's testimony."

"My husband is dead."

"He left a memorandum in writing relating to this claim."

Mrs. Lane knew this, but she believed that it was no longer in existence.

"Let him produce it," she said, calmly.

"He is prepared to do so."

"There is no such memorandum in existence."

"Pardon me, but there is!"

"Where is it?"

"In my hands."

Mrs. Lane turned pale.

"I don't believe it!"

"Then I will show you a copy of it."

He drew from his desk a copy of the memorandum printed in an earlier part of this story.

"Read it, if you like," he said.

She did so, and her face twitched convulsively.

"I can't understand how this should have come into your hands," she said; "even if it were genuine?"

"Mrs. Lane, it was left by you on your desk nearly two years ago, and brought to me by a tramp, who didn't know its importance."

"Supposing this to be so, you should have returned it to me at once!" she snapped.

"You would have destroyed it."

"This is not in Mr. Lane's handwriting."

"No, but the original is."

"Let me see it."

"It will be shown in court."

Mrs. Lane breathed hard. She sat back in her chair, and a hard look came over her face.

"I will resist this swindle!" she hissed.

"As you please. Who is your lawyer?"

"I will consider. I am a woman, but I won't allow myself to be robbed!"

"As you please. I have no more to say to you this morning."

She left the office very much perturbed, but gradually became calmer.

"I will resist!" she declared. "Even if the memorandum is in Mr. Lane's handwriting, I shall claim that he was not in sound mind when he wrote it."

She must have a lawyer, however. There was another lawyer in Portville, and she summoned him.

"Mr. Bacon," she said, "a dastardly attempt has been made to swindle me out of thirty thousand dollars. The claimant is John Graves."

"But, Mrs. Lane, Mr. Graves is a man of the highest standing."

"I don't care! He is trying to swindle me now!"

"Please give me the particulars."

"I refer you to Enoch Perkins, whom he has engaged as counsel. He will give you all the information you require. I want you to act as my lawyer."

Mr. Bacon bowed.

"I will call on Lawyer Perkins," he said, "and see you again to-morrow morning."

The next morning he called.

"Well," he said, "I have seen Mr. Perkins."

"Well?"

"And I believe the claim of Mr. Graves to be genuine."

"He can't get the money on a mere memorandum."

"It might be difficult; but this suit would ruin your reputation for honesty. Everybody will believe Mr. Graves."

"Let them do it! I will keep the money!"

She said this between her set teeth.

"There is another little circumstance," said the lawyer, "which will make your case a desperate one."

"What is it?"

"Mr. Graves has your late husband's receipt for the money."

"It is a forgery!" she said, hoarsely.

"No, it is not. I have examined it, and can safely pronounce it to be in Mr. Lane's handwriting. I am very familiar with his handwriting, and so, indeed, are dozens of others in the town."

Mrs. Lane was silent, and her face showed her keen disappointment.

"Then you don't see any chance for me?" she said, in a low voice—"you don't see any chance for me?"

"None whatever."

"But it will ruin me. The interest will amount to a large sum."

"Mr. Perkins tells me that Mr. Graves will waive interest."

"I will let you know my decision to-morrow."

Mrs. Lane announced the next day that she would not resist the claim. It was a bitter disappointment, but she would have twenty thousand dollars left.