Mr. Rand leaned forward and coughed. “Cornell is deeply indebted to your brother, Mrs. Ferrier.”

“Yes,” Isabel said crisply, “I expect Harvard will be a bit miffed.”

They exchanged a discreet smile. It was pleasant to be a part of the miffing of Harvard apparently.

“Edward owed everything to Cornell. He always said so,” she added graciously.

“He left his library to Harvard, however,” Mr. Wainwright added. “There are several bequests—including one to you Mrs. Ferrier—of one thousand dollars each.” Isabel caught her breath. She knew now that she had hoped for much more. It was indecent to be disappointed, but she was disappointed. “There will be no problem about these. They are quite clear in both wills.”

“What is the trouble then?”

“It’s a matter of, roughly, five thousand dollars given to various organizations in which your brother took an interest. But unfortunately it’s just here that there is some confusion—this is a codicil; it is crossed out and revised in three places. Money to be given to the Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee seems now to be willed to”—Mr. Wainwright picked up a typewritten page much written over in ink, and looked at it, searching for the name—“The Socialist Monthly.” He looked up with a question in his eyes.

“I know nothing about such things,” Isabel said quickly.

Mr. Wainwright leaned back in his chair, placing the tips of his fingers together to make an arch.

“We would on the whole prefer that these questionable bequests—the writing is not clear and there seem evidences of hesitation—as well of course as the matter of witnesses—be settled by the Court. In such cases, it is usual for the family to be the beneficiary. The law, as you no doubt know, is apt to tend towards recognizing the rights of the family—when there is doubt, of course—and there is doubt, Mrs. Ferrier. Very considerable doubt, I might add.”

“It’s all rather unpleasant,” Isabel said. “Who are these people? Won’t they try to get the money?” It sounded rather crass.

“Yes,” Mr. Wainwright pursed his lips, “that would not be without precedent,” and he smiled a small smile. “This sort of organization, more especially, is apt to be rather touchy. They will consider it a matter of principle, no doubt.”

Mr. Rand coughed, crossed his knees and assumed an air of judicial consideration. “If, as I understand it, the will reads that all amounts not directly specified are to go to Cornell—please forgive me, Mrs. Ferrier”—he smiled at her indulgently—“but you understand that I am speaking for the college, and must defend its interest—then, I would think that Cornell might have a prior claim?”

Money, Isabel thought, does queer things to people. She felt hot all over. She felt unaccountably angry—surely not about five thousand dollars? Why did she feel so angry then?