"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 d.a.m.nably disagreeable task. The case presents some extremely unpleasant problems."

Mr. Shaw picked up his stick, his gloves, and his newspaper, and began slowly to b.u.t.ton 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

CHAPTER XI

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 seash.o.r.e 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 for over 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 Bolingbroke Arms--"

"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, Circa.s.sian-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 the style 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 matter as 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.