At twelve o’clock the following day, Edith Rogers entered the offices of Messrs. Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, at Number 11 Wall Street, and asked to see Mr. Brennan. She was at once ushered into the latter’s private office, and found him awaiting her.

This visit to Mr. Brennan’s office was to Edith an ordeal that she greatly dreaded, and one that it had required all of her courage to face. All the night before she had lain awake, thinking about it, and even with the coming of the day her fears had not to any great extent left her.

For one thing, however, she felt thankful. Donald had, at the last moment, decided not to accompany her. At first he had insisted upon doing so, partly because of her unfamiliarity with business affairs, more because of her nervous and unstrung condition, the result of the terrible shock which the news of West’s death had given her. She had done her best to conceal her sufferings, or at least so to modify them that Donald might have no suspicion of their real cause, and in this she had been more successful than she had supposed possible. After the first shock which Mr. Brennan’s words had given her, she was conscious of a reaction, resulting in a sort of numbness, in which her mind was filled less with thoughts of the man she had supposed she loved than with a ghastly fear lest the fact of this love might become known to her husband.

Had she been able to analyze, during all the eternities of that horrible night, the cause of this fear, she might have realized that her love for West had been no love at all, but only a sudden infatuation, born of her overweening vanity and love for the good things of life on the one hand, and her utter failure to appreciate her husband’s rugged honesty of purpose on the other. The very fact that her horror at the thought that Donald might learn of her affair with West overshadowed all else in her mind, might have told her that she still valued her husband’s love and that of her child, far above that of the man who had so suddenly been taken away from her.

Donald, who sat beside her most of the night, was too generous, too unsuspicious a nature, to attribute her tears to anything but a very natural grief at the loss of a dear friend. He felt the matter keenly himself, but, man-like, strove to hide his own sufferings in order that he might the more readily comfort her.

Mrs. Pope and Alice had remained until midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Edith would not permit it. “I’m all right, mother,” she said, choking back her tears. “Go home and get your rest. I’ll see you to-morrow.”

So the mother departed, accompanied by Alice. Her whole attitude toward Edith seemed to have undergone a sudden transformation. The latter was now rich—the possessor of half a million dollars, and hence no longer to be criticised or blamed for having married a poor man. Even toward Donald her manner had changed. She addressed him as “my dearest boy,” and threw out vague hints concerning Edith’s and Bobbie’s health and the sea air which they so greatly needed. Donald paid little attention to her. He recognized her shallow-souled adoration of money and secretly despised it.

It was after they had gone, and Edith had lain sobbing upon the bed for a long time, that Donald brought up the subject of her visit to Mr. Brennan’s office. “Perhaps I had better call him up in the morning and postpone it,” he said. “Any other day will do. There is no hurry, and I’m afraid, dear, that you are hardly in a condition to discuss business matters.”

“Oh—no—no. I’d better go and get it over with.” She dried her eyes and sat up, looking at him, half-frightened. “I’ll be all right in the morning. I’d better go.”

“Very well, if you think best. Of course I shall go with you, and, really, the whole affair need not take long.”

The thought that Donald was to be with her was terrifying. For a time she was afraid to speak. She did not know what Mr. Brennan might have learned about herself and West—what information might have come to him along with the dead man’s papers and effects. Suppose Donald were to find out. She glanced at his careworn face, upon which the lines of suffering were set deep, and her heart smote her. He must never find out. After a time she spoke.

“I think, Donald, that perhaps I had better go alone.”

“Why?” He seemed surprised.

“Oh—I can hardly say. Mr. Brennan might prefer it so. Don’t you think it would look just a little—bad—for both of us to go—as though we were so anxious for poor—Billy’s—money?” Her tears broke out afresh.

He regarded the idea as a foolish whim, born of her hysterical condition, but good-naturedly humored her. “I’m not at all anxious to go,” he said. “Poor Billy—I don’t want his money. I only suggested going with you because I thought you would rather not go alone. We can decide in the morning, however. You’d better lie down now, and try to get some sleep.”

Edith began slowly to undress. As she did so, the letter from West, which she had been carrying about in her bosom all day, fell to the floor. Donald picked it up with a queer little smile and returned it to her. “Poor old Billy!” he murmured. “How strange, to think that we shall never see his handwriting again!”

The incident increased Edith’s fears; the letter was filled with expressions of love, and Donald, unsuspecting, trusting her always, had not even asked to see it. She went into the kitchen on the plea of making a cup of tea, and burned the letter at the gas range, fearful every moment that he would come in and see what she was doing. There were many other similar letters, locked in a drawer of her bureau. She determined to destroy these as well, in the morning.

Later on, Donald slept, supposing that she was doing likewise, but she only made pretense, designed to hide her feelings. She sobbed softly to herself throughout the long hours till daybreak, but morning found her dry-eyed, ready to face whatever disaster the day might bring.

Mr. Brennan was standing behind his broad mahogany table-desk, his eyeglasses in one hand, the other grasping a package. Edith, in her agitation, did not observe the latter. She sank into a big leather-covered chair and looked at the lawyer expectantly.

He pushed some papers across the desk to her and requested her to sign them. She did so, without reading them, or knowing what they were. These formalities completed, he drew the package, which appeared to contain a large number of letters, toward him and began to tap it in gently emphatic fashion with his eyeglasses.

“There is a certain matter, Mrs. Rogers, about which I must speak to you,” he began, after a long contemplation of the letters.

“Yes?” she answered, with a rising inflection. Something in his manner warned her that what he was about to say would concern her very deeply.

“When Mr. West died, his papers and other effects were forwarded to me, as executor of the estate. Among them I find these letters.” He indicated the package on the desk before him.

“Yes!” she repeated, her heart sinking. A cold perspiration broke out all over her. She wiped her lips with the ineffective bit of lace which she held crushed in her hand.

Brennan reached over, took up the bundle of letters, and handed it to her. He knew from the handwriting, from the initials with which they were signed, from all the attendant circumstances, that she had written them. “As executor of the estate, Mrs. Rogers,” he said slowly, “I feel that the best use I can make of these letters is to turn them over to you.”

For a moment she hardly grasped his meaning. His grave manner of speaking had made her believe that some terrible fate overhung her—some mysterious requirement of the law which she did not realize, or understand. Now, since it appeared that the only disposition of the letters that Brennan intended to make was to hand them over to her, she could scarcely believe that she had understood him aright. “You—you mean that I am to—to take them?” she said haltingly.

“Yes. Take them, and, madam, if you will permit me to advise you, I strongly recommend that you lose no time in destroying them.”

The color flew to her cheeks at his tone, implying as it did the guilty nature of the correspondence. It terrified her to think that this man had it in his power to destroy her utterly, merely by saying a few words to her husband. Yet he could not have any such intention, else why should he advise her to destroy the evidence of her folly, her guilt? She took the letters with trembling fingers and thrust them into her handbag. “I will destroy them at once,” she said faintly, but very eagerly, hardly daring to look at him.

The further conversation between them was short. Mr. Brennan informed her that he would be happy to advance her any money she might need, pending the legal formalities attendant upon the administration of the estate. She thanked him with downcast eyes, but assured him that she would not require any. The thought of touching any of West’s money horrified her. Her one concern had been to keep the knowledge of their mutual love from Donald—this, she felt, was now accomplished. To the money she did not at this time give so much as a single thought. On her way up-town she made a sincere effort to analyze her feelings. Why had West’s death not affected her more deeply? Why had the most important feature of the whole affair been her desire to keep the truth from Donald? The answer came, clear and vivid. It was Bobbie. She feared the destruction of her home on his account. It was love for him that had caused her to repent of her promise to West to go away with him, even before the latter had much more than started on his way to Denver.

The thought pursued her all the way home. When she arrived, Bobbie had finished his luncheon and was just going out with Nellie. She went up to the boy and clasped him in her arms. “Dear little man!” she said as she kissed him, then noticed, in her sudden thought of him, how pale and thin he looked. “Run along now, dear. The more fresh air you get, the better.”

After the child had gone, and she was alone, she took the letters Mr. Brennan had given her, drew from her bureau drawer those she had received from West, and, without looking at any of them, proceeded to make a bonfire of them all in a tin basin in the kitchen. It seemed hard to destroy his letters. They had meant so much to her when she had received them. For a moment she was tempted to read them all through for the last time, but the fear that, should she do so, she might weaken in her intention to destroy them stopped her. Donald must never know—Donald must never know. These letters were the only proof in the whole world of her wrong-doing. She applied a match to the mass of paper with trembling fingers, and, with tears in her eyes, watched the flames mount and crackle, the sheets blacken and fall to soft gray dust.

In a short time the little funeral pyre—it seemed to her the funeral pyre of the past—with all her hopes and fears, her guilt and her love, had crumbled to a tiny pile of ashes. She threw them out of the window and watched them blow hither and thither in the eddying currents of wind. When she had closed the window, it seemed to her that she had also closed the door upon the past. Before her the future lay bright and smiling. She did not admit for a moment to herself that its brightness might be a reflection from Billy West’s gold. The very thought would have made her shudder. Nevertheless, the knowledge that one has half a million dollars in the bank is apt to lend a brightness to the future, no matter how clouded the immediate present may be.