"Poor Flora—and when she tried so hard to quiet her conscience because she had so much money! But YOU know how that was. YOU helped her out of that scrape. And she's so grateful! She told me yesterday that she hardly ever gets a begging letter now."

"No; and those she does get she investigates," asserted Mr. Smith. "So the fakes don't bother her much these days. And she's doing a lot of good, too, in a small way."

"She is, and she's happy now," declared Miss Maggie, "except that she still worries a little because she is so happy. She's dismissed the maid and does her own work—I'm afraid Miss Flora never was cut out for a fine-lady life of leisure, and she loves to putter in the kitchen. She says it's such a relief, too, not to keep dressed up in company manners all the time, and not to have that horrid girl spying 'round all day to see if she behaves proper. But Flora's a dear."

"She is! and I reckon it worked the best with her of any of them."

"WORKED?" hesitated Miss Maggie.

"Er—that is, I mean, perhaps she's made the best use of the hundred thousand," stammered Mr. Smith. "She's been—er—the happiest."

"Why, y-yes, perhaps she has, when you come to look at it that way."

"But you wouldn't—er—advise this Mr. Fulton to leave her—his twenty millions?"

"Mercy!" laughed Miss Maggie, throwing up both hands. "She'd faint dead away at the mere thought of it."

"Humph! Yes, I suppose so." Mr. Smith turned on his heel and resumed his restless pacing up and down the room. From time to time he glanced furtively at Miss Maggie. Miss Maggie, her hands idly resting in her lap, palms upward, was gazing fixedly at nothing.

"Of just what—are you thinking?" he demanded at last, coming to a pause at her side.

"I was thinking—of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton," she answered, not looking up.

"Oh, you were!" There was an odd something in Mr. Smith's voice.

"Yes. I was wondering—about those twenty millions."

"Oh, you were!" The odd something had increased, but Miss Maggie's eyes were still dreamily fixed on space.

"Yes. I was wondering what he had done with them."

"Had done with them!"

"Yes, in the letter, I mean." She looked up now in faint surprise. "Don't you remember? There was a letter—a second letter to be opened in two years' time. They said that that was to dispose of the remainder of the property—his last will and testament."

"Oh, yes, I remember," assented Mr. Smith, turning on his heel again. "Then you think—Mr. Fulton is—dead?" Mr. Smith was very carefully not meeting Miss Maggie's eyes.

"Why, yes, I suppose so." Miss Maggie turned back to her meditative gazing at nothing. "The two years are nearly up, you know,—I was talking with Jane the other day—just next November."