"Before I can discuss the matter with you, Mr. Brennan, I want to ask you one question."

"Yes? What is it?"

"Do you know why West left his money to my wife?"

"My dear sir. That is a very peculiar question. How should I know?"

"You were the executor of his will."

"Undoubtedly. Yet I fail to see what that has to do with it."

"You must have seen his papers--his letters." Donald looked at the lawyer intently. "Answer me frankly, Mr. Brennan. Do you know?"

"Surely, Mr. Rogers, you can hardly expect me to answer such a question, even granting that I could do so."

"Why not?"

"As executor of Mr. West's will, it is certainly not my business to discuss the reasons which may have prompted him to make it."

Donald rose and went over to the lawyer. "Mr. Brennan," he cried, "don't try to quibble with me. I have asked you a plain, blunt question. You are under no obligation to answer it, of course, but, until you do so, we can proceed no further."

"I always supposed it was because he was very fond of her," ventured the lawyer uneasily.

"Fond of her! Yes! But how, Mr. Brennan? How?"

"They were very old friends, were they not?"

"Were they nothing more?" Donald leaned over the desk and fixed his eyes keenly upon those of the man opposite him. He felt the blood surging to his temples. "Why don't you answer me, Mr. Brennan?" he went on, as the lawyer dropped his eyes. "Were they nothing more?"

His searching questions began to annoy the lawyer. "Why do you ask me such a question, Mr. Rogers?" he snapped.

"Only to find out how much you know. Mrs. Rogers has confessed everything to me. You can do her no harm by telling me the truth, and you will make it much easier for us to go ahead. Do you know?"

"Yes," Brennan answered at length, in a low voice.

"How?"

"All the letters your wife wrote to West came to me along with his other papers."

Donald recoiled in bitterness of spirit. However certain he had been of Edith's guilt, he still hoped that Mr. Brennan, in some way, might disclose mitigating circ.u.mstances, facts of which he himself was not cognizant, whereby her affair with West might present an appearance less d.a.m.ning.

"My G.o.d!" he muttered. "And you read them?"

"Yes. I considered it my duty to examine all his papers."

"How did you know they were from my wife?"

"By her initials, signed to them--by the handwriting."

"And you have known this all these months, and said nothing?" Donald strode to the window and looked out. The North River, quivering in the hot sunlight, was a clutter of barges, tugs and ferry-boats, but his eyes, blurred with tears, saw nothing. Presently he turned. "Where are those letters now?" he asked.

"I do not know. I gave them to Mrs. Rogers. I advised her to destroy them. I presume she has done so."

An angry light crept into Donald's eyes. "You had no right--" he began hotly.

Mr. Brennan raised his hand. "You are in error, Mr. Rogers. I had every right. The letters belonged to your wife, by law. Mr. West left her everything he possessed."

"What did she say to him?" He strode excitedly toward the desk. "Tell me, man. Can't you see what it means to me?"

"They were the letters of a weak, foolish woman, Mr. Rogers--not a bad one--of that I am sure."

"Not a bad one? You mean--?"

"I mean, Mr. Rogers, that whatever your wife may have intended to do--however far she may have intended to go--West's death saved her from the one step which the world considers unforgivable."

"I hope you are right--G.o.d knows I hope you are right."

"I am sure that I am. Now tell me what has happened."

"I have left my wife. I have left her, and taken my boy."

"Well--now that you have taken that step, what do you propose to do next?"

"I don't know. That is what I want to discuss with you. It is a terrible situation. I scarcely know which way to turn. She has sent me a letter, asking me to see her. I have agreed to do so--to-day. What I shall say to her I do not know. Within the past forty-eight hours I have had every good and kind and generous impulse within me shattered and destroyed.

The friend that I loved and trusted has betrayed me. The wife for whom I would have given my life has proven disloyal--false. My self-respect is gone. My home is a wreck. The money that keeps it up comes from a man who did his best to ruin me." He began to walk about, distracted, his voice choking with feeling. "Is it any wonder that I feel bitter? Is it any wonder that I do not know what to do?"

The lawyer removed his gla.s.ses and considered them carefully for a long time. The problem was indeed a serious one.

Presently he spoke. "The first consideration, of course, is your child."

"I know it. I have taken him from his mother. He wants her--needs her.

Have I the right to deprive him of her love?"

"Not unless she has proven herself unworthy of it."

"Hasn't she? Is a woman who is unfaithful to her husband--who is willing to live on the money given her by the man who made her so--is such a woman fit to bring up a child--to teach him to be straightforward, and honest, and good?"

"You use strong terms, Mr. Rogers. As I said before, I do not believe your wife has been unfaithful to you."

"I do not refer to any specific act. Unfaithfulness is not alone a physical thing. She has fallen in love with another man. She has agreed to abandon her husband, and run away with him. She was willing to sacrifice even her child, by robbing him of his father. In one week more, but for this man's death, she would have done all these things. Is not such a woman unfaithful? Is not that enough? Could any one act have made her more so? If your wife were to do these things, would you not call her unfaithful?"

"You refuse to forgive her, then?"

"No. I do not refuse to forgive her. I have told her that I am ready to do so, on one condition."

"What is that condition, Mr. Rogers?"

"That she give up this man's money."