"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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 s.p.a.cious 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?"

CHAPTER XVI

Donald Rogers had given eight years of his life to working for the welfare of his wife and his little boy. He was a man of one idea, and to that he bent his every effort. It may be that, in his devotion to the future, he had neglected the present, but the thought that Edith, the woman whom he had trusted and believed in all these years, could be unfaithful to him had never crossed his mind. The very idea seemed monstrous--as he looked up and saw her sweet, familiar smile, he felt that he must be the victim of some weird and horrible mistake.

Edith, her face flushed and happy, beamed upon them from the open doorway. Hall was the first to speak.

"Not yet, Mrs. Rogers," he said, then looked curiously at Donald, as he noted the latter's silence.

"I suppose you two have been having a nice, long talk about your college days?" said Edith, glancing from Hall to her husband.

"Yes, in a way. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Rogers, we were talking about poor old Billy West." He turned to Donald as he spoke, and failed to observe the look of horror that crossed Edith's face.

"Billy West?" she cried, with a gasp, as she started back, her eyes big with fear.

"Yes. You remember I went to see him in Denver that time--after your sister wired me--but I was too late."

Donald interrupted him. His voice sounded harsh and unreal. "Tell Mrs.

Rogers what you have just told me," he said.

Hall looked from one to the other in surprise. He had evidently been treading on strange ground--he was unable to see his way clearly.

"Why--I--well, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Rogers, I was gossiping a bit--something I don't often do. I heard a curious story about West while I was out in Denver, and I was just telling your husband about it."

"Go on!" cried Donald hoa.r.s.ely.

"It wasn't anything," said Hall nervously. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it at all. They told me at the hospital that he had left his entire fortune to some married woman in New York with whom he was madly in love."

Edith groped blindly forward. Her whole world had come clattering down in ruin about her head. She grasped the back of a chair with both hands, and tried to recover her self-control. "Yes," she gasped. "I--I know."

Hall saw her agitation, but did not in any way understand its cause.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Rogers; I'm sorry," he faltered, then turned to Donald.

"I say, old man," he said, "won't you please take me out and kick me gently around the block? I feel that I am making all kinds of an a.s.s of myself--gossiping here like an old woman."

Donald stepped suddenly forward. "Mr. West's death was a great shock to us both, Mr. Hall. Mrs. Rogers has never got over it. You can understand, of course."

He came to her rescue almost unconsciously, protecting her from the breakdown which now seemed inevitable. She stood clutching the back of the chair, her face twitching with emotion, afraid to look at her husband, afraid to look at Hall, her eyes upon the distant blue of the Sound. The blow had fallen--she knew that tragedy stood at her side, ready to strike her down. The tenseness of the situation was momentarily relieved by the appearance of Mrs. Pope and Alice.

"Are we late, dear?" asked her mother, puffing heavily out on the veranda.

Edith did not answer; she scarcely seemed to hear. Alice went up to Hall with a smile.