Donald Rogers looked worried, although he tried not to show it. He glanced about the hall eagerly.

“Where’s Bobbie?” he inquired.

“Having his supper, dear. He was out driving when you came. They drove over to the lighthouse to try his new pony. You can’t imagine how delighted he is with it. I’m trying to keep him out of doors as much as possible. He looks like another child already. The sea air is just what he needs.”

“Great, isn’t it?” Donald said. “I don’t wonder he feels better. You are looking very charming yourself to-night, Edith. You’re gaining weight.”

“I’ve gained eight pounds since we’ve been here. I shouldn’t have believed it possible, but I weighed myself the day we came just to see. I wish you would take a few weeks off, and have a good rest—you don’t look yourself. What’s the matter? Business?”

“Yes. Things aren’t going very well.”

She came up to him, and put her hand affectionately upon his arm.

“After all, Don,” she said, looking at him fondly, “it doesn’t make so much difference—now.”

“Just as much as ever, dear,” he said, taking her hand. “You know how I feel about this money. I’m glad, for your sake, and Bobbie’s, but it isn’t mine, and I can’t forget it.”

“Everything I have is yours, dear—everything! You know that.”

“Thank you, Edith. I appreciate it even if I can’t take advantage of it. I want to succeed on my own account—I can’t stop work just because my wife happens to be a rich woman. You wouldn’t respect me if I did that. I’ll win out, all right. You believe that, don’t you?” He looked at her eagerly.

“Of course I do,” she replied, patting his hand. “I know you will. I only wish you would let me make it easier for you. It spoils all my happiness, not to be able to do so.”

“I don’t see what you could do, Edith, more than you are doing.”

“How is business, Donald?”

He began to walk gloomily up and down. “The work at the office is all right,” he said presently. “It’s that confounded glass plant that worries me. We haven’t enough working capital, and can’t seem to borrow any. The worst of it is, there’s a payment due on the property September first, five thousand dollars. You know the condition of the money-market, I suppose. The papers are full of it.”

“You mean about the stock-market?” asked Edith timidly.

Donald threw himself into a chair. “Yes,” he replied, “that and the Western Securities decision, and the failure of the Columbian Trust Company. Things look pretty bad. The banks are afraid to lend a dollar without gilt-edged security. Just my luck! Any other year things would have been different. You remember I was afraid of this, in the spring. I spoke to Billy West about it.”

“Why shouldn’t I lend you the money?” said Edith, coming over and standing by his chair.

“I couldn’t let you do that, dear,” he replied, looking up at her.

“But why? You know I have over twenty thousand dollars lying idle in the bank—interest, not principal. You must let me lend it to you. How much do you want?” She went over to a desk in the corner and drew a check-book from one of the drawers. “Please, Donald. It will be such a pleasure to me.” She looked at him in eager expectancy.

“I can’t accept it, Edith. I want to stand on my own feet. Now that you have all this money, I’m doubly anxious to do it. I don’t want to be just Mrs. Rogers’ husband.”

“You could never be that, dear. I want you to do all you say—can’t you see that’s one reason I’m so anxious to help you? We will make it a business transaction—you can give me a mortgage, or whatever you call it, just as if you were borrowing from some hard-fisted old miser. I have a perfect right to invest my money in a glass factory, if I please. You wouldn’t owe me anything.” She paused, smiling.

“You are a great financier, Edith,” laughed her husband. “You have discovered the art of borrowing money without owing it.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Donald,” she protested. “I’m in earnest. I want you to take it—just to oblige me. You will—won’t you, dear?”

“Would you think just as much of me?” he asked, evidently revolving the matter carefully in his mind.

“How can you ask me such a question? It would be a mighty poor sort of a world, if we couldn’t help one another over a hard place, once in a while.”

Donald rose from his seat, and went over toward his wife. “I didn’t intend to speak of this, Edith,” he said, “but now that I have—perhaps poor Billy would be glad, if he knew. I’ll take it—but as a loan only, mind you, and with proper security.”

At this reference to West, Edith shivered slightly and turned away to hide her feelings. “How much do you need?” she asked in a strained voice. “Fifteen thousand?”

“Oh, no. Ten will be ample. But it isn’t necessary to bother about it now. Wait until I go back to town.”

“No, Don. You might change your mind. You’d best take it now.” She hurriedly began to write out a check. “You can send the mortgage, or note, or whatever it is, down to me—that is, if you really want to do it that way.”

“I certainly shouldn’t think of doing it any other,” said Donald.

Edith rose, and, going up to her husband, put the check in his hand. “Here, Donald,” she said. “I hope this will fix everything all right. If it does, it will make me very happy.”

“Thank you, Edith,” he remarked simply, putting the check in his pocket. “I shall never forget this,—never. You have been very good to me. I only hope I shall not have to keep it long.”

“Don’t thank me, Donald. Just consider it a little loan from a dear friend.” He put his arm about her, and drew her to him. “God bless you, dear, you and poor old Billy. How I wish he were here to enjoy it all.” He kissed her lovingly, then started in surprise. “Why, Edith, you are crying,” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter, dear? There’s nothing wrong, is there?” He smoothed back the hair from her forehead tenderly.

“Nothing,” she cried, as she escaped from his embrace, and, going over to the desk, put the check-book back into the drawer, which she locked.

As she did so, they both turned at the sound of someone descending the stairs. It was Hall.

“Hello, Hall! Glad to see you.” Donald went up to their guest with outstretched hand.

“Rogers!” exclaimed the latter, shaking Donald’s hand vigorously. “You look just the same as you did back in ninety-five. How are you?”

“Pretty well. How are things in the West?”

“Oh, about as usual—too much politics, and not enough rain.”

Donald laughed.

“Sit down, Mr. Hall,” said Edith. “I must go and see to dinner. I’ll be back presently.” She started toward the door.

“I hope you are not making any extra preparation on my account,” Hall exclaimed.

“Oh—no—nothing unusual,” Edith laughed. “We are going to treat you as one of the family.”

“That will make a hit with me, Mrs. Rogers,” said Hall, joining in her laugh.

“I thought it would,” she cried, as she left the room.

“How would a high-ball strike you, eh?” asked Donald.

“Right where I live.”

Donald led the way to the veranda. “Suppose we sit out here. It’s a bit cooler, I think. There’s some whiskey on the table.”

“All the comforts of home, I see. Nice place you’ve got here, Rogers.” He seated himself comfortably in a wicker lounging chair.

“Yes, very.” Donald’s voice had a peculiar note—he felt the irony of the situation. “Shall I pour you out a drink?” he asked, going to the table.

“Thanks, old man. Here’s to you!” Hall raised his glass. “Nothing like the seashore, after all, in the summer for health and happiness. How’s your little boy?”

“Great. Growing like a weed.” Donald took a chair opposite his guest and drew a cigar-case from his pocket. “Have a cigar?”

“No, thanks; not before dinner. I’ll light a cigarette, though, if you don’t mind.” He took out a box of cigarettes and offered it to his host. “Have one?”

“Thanks.” Donald put his cigar-case back into his pocket, and took a cigarette. “I understand,” he said, “that you are with the Pioneer Construction Company of Chicago.”

“Yes. I’ve been with them for several years. Made me chief engineer last year.”

“Good work! Ought to be a splendid job. Keeps you moving about a good deal, though, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. More than I like. I’ve pretty well covered the West, this past year. Meet a lot of Columbia men, off and on. I like ’Frisco. Wonderful place. Dennett, ninety-six, is in business there. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Slightly. He was in the class below me.”

“And Walker, ninety-five. Remember him?”

“Tall fellow? Wears glasses? Yes, I remember him. Very bright man. How long did you stay in ’Frisco?”

“Two months. Finished up a job in Denver before that.”

“Denver? That’s where poor Billy West died. He was a ninety-five man. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Slightly. Great friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, I thought everything of him. His death was a terrible shock.”

“So sudden, too. He was ill only a few days. Appendicitis, they told me.”

“Yes. He died right after the operation.”

“I was in Denver at the time; but I didn’t think to look him up. Didn’t even know he was sick until I got your telegram.”

“My telegram?” Donald looked at his guest in sudden surprise.

“Well, perhaps not yours, exactly. Miss Pope wired me that he was sick, and asked me to find out how he was. I supposed it was on your account.”

“Miss Pope?”

“Yes. Your sister-in-law.”

Donald’s surprise and confusion were painfully evident. “I—I—don’t understand why she should have wired. I didn’t even know he was sick, myself.”

“She must have known it,” replied Hall, a trifle uneasily. “I went to the hospital at once. They told me he had been dead several days.”

“Strange,” muttered Donald. “I can’t see why she should have wired.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Rogers asked her to do so. She didn’t know me, herself, you know.”

“You went to the hospital, you say?”

“Yes. He had been buried by that time, poor chap. I had a talk with the nurse who attended him.”

“Did he suffer much?”

“No, not physically, that is. They told me he worried terribly over his illness. Died raving about some woman.”

“Some woman? That’s strange.”

“Why so? Most men do, don’t they?”

“West didn’t. He never cared much about women.”

“He must have, from what I heard.”

“Why so?” Donald shifted uneasily in his chair.

“It’s a queer story. I suppose the nurse ought not to have told me, but she must have thought I was a very dear friend of his. It seems he was terribly in love with some married woman here in New York—wrote to her every day, almost—up to the last. I understand she did to him, too.”

“A married woman?” cried Donald, in astonishment. “I don’t believe it. I knew Billy West intimately. He had scarcely any woman friends. It’s hardly likely he could have been carrying on such an affair without my knowing it. I saw him every day, almost.”

Hall took out his cigarette-case and lighted a fresh cigarette. “I don’t know,” he replied. “That’s what the nurse said. She used to read him her letters. They had arranged that she was to leave her husband, and she and West were going to run away together—to Europe. He’d gone out to Denver to close up his affairs, and turn all his property into money. They had everything arranged to go as soon as he returned to New York. That’s what made it so hard for him to die.”

Donald gazed at the face of the man opposite him with horrified intentness. “Who was she?” he asked suddenly.

“I haven’t the least idea. I didn’t ask the nurse, and she probably didn’t know. It was the strange outcome of the affair that interested me particularly. I wonder if you heard it.”

Donald looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly.

“Well, it was like this: West, I understand, was worth a lot of money.” Hall leaned forward in his chair, and addressed his host impressively. “The day before he died,” he said slowly, “he called in a lawyer, and made a will, leaving every cent he had in the world to the woman he was in love with.”

Donald Rogers allowed his half-smoked cigarette to drop unheeded to the floor. He started forward in his chair, his face flushed, his whole appearance that of a man who had suffered a sudden and terrible shock. “It’s a lie!” he gasped hoarsely, then sank back in horror.

A look of amazement spread over Hall’s face. “Pardon me, old man,” he said slowly. “I didn’t suppose you’d feel so strongly about the matter, or I should never have mentioned it. I only know what the nurse told me.”

Donald recovered himself with an effort. He tried to stem the tumult that surged through his brain. “Excuse me, Hall,” he said weakly. “It—it was a great shock.” Then he began nervously to light another cigarette.

Hall looked at him in astonishment. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “It surprised me a good deal, too. I guess it’s true, though. The nurse would have had no reason to lie about it. I’ve often wondered what sort of a man this woman’s husband must have been, to let her take the money—if he did. Pretty cheap skate, to stand for a thing like that—don’t you think?”

“If he did,” repeated Donald mechanically, and, fumbling in his pocket, drew forth the check which his wife had given him a short time before.

“Thought you might have heard about it,” continued Hall, as he finished his drink.

“No.” Donald’s voice was strained—he was vaguely groping in his mind for some solid ground in the chaos that surrounded him. “I should have known, but I did not,” he continued; then began slowly to tear the check into bits.

“Women are the devil, aren’t they?” said Hall, as he rose and began to walk about the spacious veranda. “Perhaps her husband never even knew.”

Donald rose, and, going to the railing, dropped the pieces of the check in a shower upon the rose bushes beneath. “He never knew,” he repeated mechanically.

As he spoke, Edith appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is almost ready,” she announced gaily. “Haven’t the others come down yet?”