u know
law books. This is our own business and nobody else's. I'd knock my best
friend out of the door if he come poking into my private matters. Why,
man alive! this is sacred. That's it--an affair of the heart. Now be
careful." His voice was high and angry and his self-control was
slipping.

"Amos Judson, I've listened patiently to your words. Patiently, too, I
have watched your line of action, for three years. Ever since I came
home from the war I have followed your business methods carefully."

The little man before him was turning yellow in spite of his
self-assurance and reliance on his twin gods, money and deception, to
carry him through any vicissitude. He made one more effort to bring the
matter to his own view.

"Now, don't be so serious, Baronet. This is a little love affair of
mine. If you're interested, all right; if not, let it go. That's it, let
it go, and I'm through with you." He rose to his feet.

"But I'm not through with you. Sit down. I sent for you because I
wanted to see you. I am not through with this interview. Whether it's to
be the last or not will depend on conditions."

Judson was very uncomfortable and blindly angry, but he sat as directed.

"When I came home, I found you in possession of all the funds left by my
friend, Irving Whately, to his wife and child. A friend's interest led
me to investigate the business fallen to you. Irving begged me, when
his mortal hours were few, to befriend his loved ones. It didn't take
long to discover how matters were shaping themselves. But understanding
and belief are one thing, and legal evidence is another."

"What was it your business?" Judson stormed. My father rose and, going
to his cabinet, he took from an inner drawer a folded yellow bit of
paper torn from a note book. Through the centre of it was a ragged
little hole, the kind a bullet might have cut.

"This," he said, "was in Whately's notebook. We found it in his pocket.
The bullet that killed him went through it, and was deadened a trifle by
it, sparing his life a little longer. These words he had written in camp
the night before that battle at Missionary Ridge:

"'If I am killed in battle I want John Baronet to take care of my wife
and child.' It was witnessed by Cris Mead and Howard Morton. Morton's in
the hospital in the East now, but Cris is down in the bank. Both of
their signatures are here."

Judson sat still and sullen.

"This is why it was my business to find out, at leas