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, struggled irritably, 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 the will 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 with it?” 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. The woman 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’t say 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 dispose of 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, if I 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 him that 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.