Chester answered at once:

Mrs. Rand protested against Chester sending her eight dollars a week, but he insisted upon it, advising her to lay aside what she did not need.

One evening about this time Edward Granger, who still occupied the small apartment adjoining, came into Chester’s room, looking agitated.

“What is the matter?” asked Chester. “Have you had bad news?”

“Yes; I have had a letter from Mr. Wilson, of Portland, whom you recollect we met about a year ago.”

“I remember him.”

“I will read you his letter. You will see that I have reason to feel anxious.”

The letter ran as follows:

“What do you think of that, Chester?” asked Edward, in a troubled voice.

“I think it very important. Your mother’s life and your interests both are in peril.”

“And the worst of it is that I am helpless,” said Edward, sadly. “I ought to go out there, but you know how small my salary is. It has required the utmost economy to live, and I haven’t as much as five dollars saved up. How can I make such a long and costly journey?”

“I see the difficulty, Edward, but I need time to think it over. To-morrow afternoon come in and I may have some advice to give you.”

“I know that you will advise me for the best, Chester.”

“There is a good deal in age and experience,” said Chester, smiling.

When Edward left the room Chester took from his pocket a letter received the day previous, and postmarked Tacoma. It was to this effect:

“Why shouldn’t I go to Tacoma?” thought Chester. “I can probably sell the lots to better advantage than any agents, and should be entirely unable to fix upon a suitable price unless I am on the ground. In case I go on, I can take Edward with me, and trust to him to repay the money advanced at some future time.”

The more Chester thought of this plan the more favorable it struck him.

He went the next day to the office of The Phœnix, and after delivering his sketches, said: “I should like leave of absence for two months. Can you spare me?”

“Does your health require it, Mr. Rand?” asked the editor.

“No,” answered Chester, “but I own a little property in Tacoma, and there are parties out there who wish to buy. It is important that I should go out there to attend to the matter.”

The editor arched his brows in astonishment.

“What!” he said. “An artist, and own real estate? This is truly surprising.”

“I didn’t earn it by my art,” replied Chester, smiling. “It was a bequest.”

“That accounts for it. I suppose, under the circumstances, we must let you go; but why need you give up your work? Probably ideas and suggestions may come to you while you are traveling. These you can send to us by mail.”

“But I can’t do enough to earn the salary you pay me.”

“Then we will pay according to the amount you do.”

“That will be satisfactory.”

“Do you need an advance for the expenses of your journey?”

“No; I have some money laid by.”

“Another surprise! When do you want to start?”

“As soon as possible. I will not come to the office again.”

“Then good luck and a pleasant journey.”

When Edward Granger came into his room later in the day, Chester said: “Day after to-morrow we start for Oregon. Ask your employers to hold your place for you, and get ready at once.”

“But the money, Chester?” gasped Edward.

“I will advance it to you, and you shall repay me when you can.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

PREPARING FOR THE JOURNEY.

No sooner had Chester decided upon his Western journey than he telegraphed to Dean & Downie, of Tacoma:

“I will call upon you within two weeks.”

Mrs. Rand was much surprised when Chester, coming home unexpectedly, announced his intentions.

“Do you want me to take you with me, mother?” asked Chester, with a smile.

“I am afraid I could not help you much. But you are not used to traveling. You may take the wrong cars.”

Again Chester smiled.

“I have spent over a year in the city, mother,” he said. “I have got along pretty well in the last twelve months, haven’t I?”

“Yes; but suppose you were to fall sick, with no one to look after you?”

“I didn’t tell you that I am going to have company. Edward Granger, who was born in Oregon, and is three years older than myself, will go with me.”

“Then I shall feel easier. He knows the way, and can look after you.”

Chester was secretly of opinion that he was more competent to look after Edward, but did not say so. He saw that his mother was easier in mind, and this relieved him.

Before he started from New York he called to see Mr. Fairchild. On Fourteenth Street he fell in with Felix Gordon.

“How are you getting along, Felix?” he asked.

“Pretty well. Mr. Fairchild has raised me to six dollars a week.”

“I am glad of it. That shows he is satisfied with you.”

“I try to please him. I began to think that is the best policy. That is why you have succeeded so well.”

“Do you ever hear from Mr. Mullins?”

“No; but I know where he is.”

“Where? Of course you know that I have no wish to injure him.”

“He is somewhere in Oregon, or perhaps in Washington Territory.”

Washington had not at that time been advanced to the dignity of a State.

“That is curious.”

“Why is it curious?”

“Because I am going to start for Oregon and Washington to-night.”

“You don’t mean it! What are you going for?”

“On business,” answered Chester, not caring to make a confidant of Felix.

“Won’t it cost a good deal of money?”

“Yes; but I expect to get paid for going.”

“What a lucky fellow you are!” said Felix, not without a trace of envy. “I wish I could go. I like to travel, but I have never had a chance.”

Mr. Fairchild was equally surprised when told of Chester’s plans.

“Are you going as an artist?” he asked.

“No; as a real estate man,” answered Chester. “I own a few lots in Tacoma, and have a chance of selling a part of them.”

Then he went into particulars.

“I congratulate you. I have only one piece of advice to offer. Make careful inquiries as to the value of property. Then ask a fair price, not one that is exorbitant. That might drive the hotel people to seeking another site for their house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fairchild; I will remember your advice.”

“The journey is an expensive one. If you need two or three hundred dollars I will loan it to you cheerfully.”

“Thank you very much, but I have more money saved up than I shall require.”

“I see you are careful and provident. Well, Chester, I wish you every success.”

“I am sure of that, Mr. Fairchild. By the way, I hear that your old bookkeeper is in Oregon or Washington.”

“Who told you?”

“Felix. Have you any message for him if I happen to meet him?”

“Say that I have no intention of prosecuting him. If he is ever able I shall be glad to have him return the money he took from me. As to punishment, I am sure he has been punished enough by his enforced flight and sense of wrongdoing.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A GREAT SURPRISE.

From New York to Tacoma is a long journey. Over three thousand miles must be traversed by rail, but the trip is far from tiresome. Chester and his companion thoroughly enjoyed it. All was new and strange, and the broad spaces through which they passed were full of interest.

They stopped at Niagara Falls, but only for a few hours, and spent a day in Chicago. Then they were whirled onward to St. Paul and Minneapolis, and later on over the broad plains of North Dakota and through the mountains of Montana.

“I never thought the country was so large before,” said Chester to Edward. “You have been over the ground once before.”

“Yes; but part of it was during the night, It is pleasant to see it once more. Many of the places have grown considerably, though it is only two years since I came from Portland.”

Chester made some agreeable acquaintances. An unsociable traveler misses many of the profitable results of his journey, besides finding time hang heavily on his hands.

Just after leaving Bismarck, in North Dakota, Chester’s attention was called to an old man, whose white hair and wrinkled face indicated that he had passed the age of seventy years.

The conductor came through the car, collecting tickets. The old man searched for his, and an expression of dismay overspread his face.

“I can’t find my ticket,” he said.

“That is unfortunate. Where did you come from?”

“From Buffalo.”

“When did you last see your ticket?”

“I stopped over one night in Bismarck, and had to share my room with a young man, for the hotel was crowded. I think he must have picked my pocket of the ticket.”

“Did you know the ticket was missing when you boarded the train?”

“No, sir. I did not think to look.”

“Your case is unfortunate. How far are you going?”

“To Tacoma. I have a son there.”

“I am afraid you will have to pay the fare from here. I have no discretion in the matter, and cannot allow you to ride without a ticket.”

“Don’t you believe my ticket was stolen?” asked the old man, in a state of nervous agitation.

“Yes, I believe it. I don’t think a man of your age would deceive me. But I cannot let you travel without paying for another.”

“I haven’t money enough,” said the old man, piteously. “If you will wait till I reach Tacoma my son will give me money to pay you.”

“I am not allowed to do that. I think you will have to get out at the next station.”

The old man was much agitated.

“It is very hard,” he sighed. “I—I don’t know what to do.”

Chester had listened to this conversation with great sympathy for the unfortunate traveler, on account of his age and apparent helplessness.

“How much is the fare to Tacoma from this point?” he asked.

“In the neighborhood of fifty dollars,” answered the conductor.

“Will your son be able to pay this?” asked Chester.

“Oh, yes,” answered the old man. “William has been doin’ well. He is going to build a large hotel in Tacoma—he and another man.”

“Then,” said Chester, “I will advance you what money you need. You can give me a memorandum, so that I can collect it from your son.”

“Heaven bless you, young man!” said the old man, fervently. “You are indeed a friend to me who am but a stranger. I am sure you will prosper.”

“Thank you.”

“What a fellow you are, Chester!” said Edward. “You will make yourself poor helping others.”

“I shall sleep better for having aided the old man,” answered Chester.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. The two boys went at once to Tacoma, as Chester felt that the gentlemen who were negotiating for his lots were probably in a hurry to arrange for the building of the hotel. After establishing themselves at a hotel and eating dinner, they went at once to the office of Dean & Downie, the real estate agents from whom Chester had received a letter.

Here a surprise awaited him.

Standing at a desk in the rear of the office was a figure that looked familiar. The man turned as the door opened to admit Chester, and the latter recognized to his great astonishment his old enemy—David Mullins!

CHAPTER XXXVII.

DAVID MULLINS AGAIN.

When David Mullins saw Chester enter the office he turned pale, and looked panic-stricken.

“You here!” he exclaimed, in a hollow voice.

“Yes, Mr. Mullins. I am surprised to meet you.”

“Then you didn’t know I was here?”

“I heard from Felix that you were in this part of the country.”

“I am trying to earn an honest living,” said Mullins, in agitation. “My employers know nothing to my prejudice. Do you come as a friend or an enemy?”

“Mr. Mullins, I haven’t the least intention of harming you. I will not even appear to know you. I came here to see Dean & Downie, with whom I have business.”

“Heaven be praised! I will not soon forget your kindness. Here comes Mr. Dean. Remember your promise.”

At this moment Mr. Dean entered the office. David Mullins had returned to his desk.

“This young man wishes to see you, Mr. Dean,” he said, formally, when his employer entered.

Mr. Dean looked at Chester, inquiringly.

“I am Chester Rand, with whom you have had some correspondence,” said Chester, tendering his card. “I have just arrived from New York.”

The broker regarded him in surprise.

“You Chester Rand?” he exclaimed. “Why, you are a boy.”

“I must plead guilty to that indictment,” said Chester, smiling, “but I am the owner of the lots which I understand are wanted for the new hotel.”

David Mullins, who heard this conversation, looked up in amazement. He had not known of the correspondence with Chester, as Mr. Dean had written his letter personally, and it had not gone through the office.

“Can you furnish any evidence of this?” asked Mr. Dean.

“Here is the letter you sent me, and here is a copy of my reply.”

The broker took the letter from Chester’s hand and all doubt vanished from his countenance.

“I am glad to see you here so soon, Mr. Rand,” he said, “as the parties with whom I am negotiating are anxious to conclude matters as soon as possible. Will you go over with me to Mr. Taylor’s office? Taylor and Pearson are the parties’ names.”

“I will go with pleasure.”

As they walked through the chief business street Chester noticed with interest evidences of activity everywhere. Tacoma he found was situated, like San Francisco, on a side hill, sloping down toward Puget Sound.

“What a fine location for a town,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Dean, “this is destined to be a large city. Our people are enterprising and progressive. Seattle is at present ahead of us, but we mean to catch up, and that ere many years.”

“At what price are lots selling on this street?”

“I see you have business ideas,” said the broker, smiling. “I suppose you want to know what price you can charge for your lots.”

“You are right.”

“Of course it will not be right for me to advise you, being employed by the other party, but I will give you some idea. The lot adjoining your plot sold last week for two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand?”

“Yes.”

“Probably it would be well for me to wait a year or two, as the lots would undoubtedly command more then.”

“That is one way of looking at it. Let me point out another. You have five lots, have you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you sell three to the hotel company you can hold the other two five years if you like. The proximity of the hotel will help to enhance their value.”

“I see that.”

“That is a point to be considered. If you ask a prohibitory price, the hotel will go elsewhere, and you may have to wait a good while before you have a chance to sell. But here is Mr. Taylor’s office.”

The broker entered, followed by Chester. Here a surprise awaited him.

Sitting in an armchair was his venerable friend of the train, appearing very much at home. His face lighted up when Chester came in.

“William,” he said to a stout man of middle age, “this is the young man who generously advanced money to meet my car fare when I was in danger of being put off the train.”

The younger man advanced and cordially offered his hand.

“My boy,” he said, “I shall not soon forget your kindness to my father. I will gladly repay you for the money you disbursed on his account.”

“I was very glad to stand his friend, sir,” returned Chester, modestly.

“Let me know to whom I am indebted.”

“Mr. Taylor,” said the broker, “this young gentleman is Chester Rand, owner of the lots which you wish to buy.”

“Is it possible?” ejaculated William Taylor. “I didn’t know that the owner of the lots was a boy.”

“The lots were a bequest to me from the original owner,” said Chester.

“And you have never been out this way before?”

“This is my first visit to Tacoma.”

“You are hardly old enough to be in business.”

“I am an artist; that is, I furnish illustrations to a comic weekly paper in New York.”

“You have begun life early. I suspect you are better fitted for business than most young men of your age. Here is my partner, Mr. Pearson.”

In the negotiation that followed the reader will not be interested. At length a mutually satisfactory arrangement was made. Chester agreed to sell the three lots wanted for the hotel for eight thousand dollars, half cash and the balance on a year’s time at twelve per cent. interest.

When the business was concluded and papers signed, Mr. Dean said: “Mr. Rand, I think you have made a good bargain. You might have extorted more, but you have received a fair price and retained the good will of the purchaser. What do you propose to do with the four thousand dollars you will receive in cash?”

“I have not had time to think.”

“I will venture to give you some advice. My partner, John Downie, has made a specialty of city property, and he will invest any part for you in lower-priced city lots, which are sure to advance rapidly.”

“Then I will put the matter in his hands and rely on his judgment. I will carry back with me a thousand dollars, and leave with him three thousand dollars for investment.”

“Then come back to the office and I will introduce you to Mr. Downie, with whom you can leave instructions.”

Chester was presented to Mr. Downie, a blond young man, who looked honest and reliable, and they soon came to an understanding. They walked about the town—it was not a city then—and Chester picked out several lots which he was in favor of buying.

He remained a week in Tacoma, and before the end of that time all arrangements were perfected, and he found himself the owner of seven lots, more or less eligible, in addition to the two he had reserved in the original plot.

On the evening of the second day, as he was taking a walk alone, he encountered David Mullins.

“Good-evening, Mr. Mullins,” he said, politely.

“Good-evening, Chester,” returned the bookkeeper, flushing slightly. “I want to thank you for not exposing my past misdeeds.”

“I hope, Mr. Mullins, you did not think me mean enough to do so.”

“I am sorry to say that according to my sad experience eight out of ten would have done so, especially if they had reason, like you, to complain of personal ill treatment.”

“I don’t believe in persecuting a man.”

“I wish all were of your way of thinking. Shall I tell you my experience?”

“If you will.”

“When I left New York I went to Chicago and obtained the position of collector for a mercantile establishment. I was paid a commission, and got on very well till one unlucky day I fell in with an acquaintance from New York.

“‘Where are you working?’ he asked.

“I told him.

“The next day my employer summoned me to his presence.

“‘I shall not require your services any longer,’ he said.

“I asked no questions. I understood that my treacherous friend had given me away.

“I had a few dollars saved, and went to Minneapolis. There I was undisturbed for six months. Then the same man appeared and again deprived me of my situation.”

“How contemptible!” ejaculated Chester, with a ring of scorn in his voice.

“Then I came to Tacoma, and here I have been thus far undisturbed. When I saw you I had a scare. I thought my time had come, and I must again move on.”

“So far from wishing to harm you, Mr. Mullins,” said Chester, “if, through the meanness of others you get into trouble you can any time send to me for a loan of fifty dollars.”

“Thank you,” ejaculated Mullins, gratefully, wringing Chester’s hand. “You are heaping coals of fire on my head.”

“You will always have my best wishes for your prosperity. If ever you are able, repay the money you took from Mr. Fairchild, and I will venture to promise that he will forgive you.”

“With God’s help I will!”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ABNER TRIMBLE’S PLOT.

Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which appears the name of the proprietor:

Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to others.

“Glad to see you, Floyd,” said Trimble.

“That means a glass of whisky, doesn’t it?” returned Floyd.

“Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see my wife.”

“About the old matter?”

“Yes; she isn’t quite satisfied about the kid’s death, and she won’t make a will in my favor till she is. She wants to ask you a few questions.”

Floyd made a wry face.

“She’s as bad as a lawyer. I say, Abner, I’m afraid I’ll get tripped up.”

“You must stick to the old story.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t you remember you said that the kid hired a boat to row in the harbor along with two other boys, and the boat was upset and all three were drowned?”

“Yes, I remember. It’s a smart yarn, isn’t it?” grinned Floyd.

“Yes, but you mustn’t let her doubt it. You remember how you came to know about the drowning?”

“No, I forget.”

Abner Trimble frowned.

“Look here, Floyd. You’d better remember, or you won’t get the money I promised you. You were out in a boat yourself, and saw the whole thing. You jumped into the water, and tried to save the kid, but it was no use. He went to the bottom—and that was the end of him!”

“A very pretty story,” said Floyd, complacently. “Won’t I get somethin’ for tryin’ to save the kid’s life?”

“As like as not. I’ll suggest it to the old lady myself.”

“When do you want me to go up to the house?”

“Now. The lawyer’s coming at four o’clock, and I want you to confirm Mrs. T. in her belief in the boy’s death.”

“It’s dry talkin’, Abner,” said Floyd, significantly.

“Take a glass of sarsaparilla, then.”

“Sarsaparilla!” repeated Floyd, contemptuously. “That’s only fit for children.”

“Lemon soda, then.”

“What’s the matter with whisky?”

“Are you a fool? Do you think Mrs. T. will believe your story if you come to her smelling of whisky?”

“You’re hard on me, Abner. Just one little glass.”

“You can put that off till afterward. Here, take some lemon soda, or I’ll mix you a glass of lemonade.”

“Well, if I must,” said Floyd, in a tone of resignation.

“You can have as much whisky as you like afterward.”

“Then the sooner we get over the job the better. I’m ready now.”

“Here, Tim, take my place,” said Abner Trimble, calling his barkeeper; “I’m going to the house for an hour. Now come along.”

Abner Trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion of the city. It belonged to his wife when he married her, and he had simply taken up his residence in her house. He would have liked to have lived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but she was attached to her home and was unwilling to move.

Trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to see his wife. She was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining her chamber, looking pale and sorrowful.

“Well, Mary,” said Trimble, “I’ve brought Floyd along to answer any questions relating to poor Edward’s death.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to see him,” answered his wife, in a dull, spiritless tone.

“Shall I bring him up?”

“If you like.”

Trimble went to the landing and called out: “You can come up, Floyd.”

Floyd entered the room, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands. He was not used to society, and did not look forward with much pleasure to the interview which had been forced upon him.

“I hope I see you well, ma’am,” he said, bobbing his head.

“As well as I ever expect to be,” answered Mrs. Trimble, sadly. “Your name is——”

“Floyd, ma’am. Darius Floyd.”

“And you knew my poor son?”

“Yes, ma’am, I knew him well. Ed and I was regular cronies.”

Mrs. Trimble looked at the man before her, and was mildly surprised. Certainly Edward must have changed, or he would not keep such company. But, prejudiced against her son as she had been by her husband’s misrepresentations, she feared that this was only another proof of Edward’s moral decadence.

“You have been in New York recently?”

“Yes; I was there quite a while.”

“And you used to see Edward?”

“’Most every day, ma’am.”

“How was he employed?”

This was not a question to which Mr. Floyd had prepared an answer. He looked to Mr. Trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter nodded impatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean “anything.”

“He was tendin’ a pool room, ma’am,” said Floyd, with what he thought a lucky inspiration. “He was tendin’ a pool room on Sixth Avenue.”

“He must indeed have changed to accept such employment. I hope he didn’t drink?”

“Not often, ma’am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. Them are my favorites.”

Abner Trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. He remembered Mr. Floyd’s objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decided preference for whisky.

“I am glad that he was not intemperate. You saw the accident?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please tell me once more what you can.”

“I took a boat down at the Battery to have a row one afternoon, when, after a while, I saw another boat comin’ out with three fellers into it. One of them was your son, Edward.”

“Did you know Edward’s companions?”

“Never saw them before in my life. They was about as old as he. Well, by and by one of them stood up in the boat. I surmise he had been drinkin’. Then, a minute afterward, I saw the boat upset, and the three was strugglin’ in the water.

“I didn’t take no interest in the others, but I wanted to save Edward, so I jumped into the water and made for him. That is, I thought I did. But it so happened in the confusion that I got hold of the wrong boy, and when I managed to get him on board my boat, I saw my mistake. It was too late to correct it—excuse my emotion, ma’am,” and Mr. Floyd drew a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes; “but when I looked out and couldn’t see either of the other young fellers, and realized that they were drowned, I felt awful bad.”

Mrs. Trimble put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned. The picture drawn by Mr. Floyd was too much for her.

“I wish I could see the young man whose life you saved,” she said, after a pause, “Have you his name and address?”

“No, ma’am; he didn’t even thank me. I didn’t get even the price of a glass of—sarsaparilla out of him.”

Mr. Floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time.

“I have been much interested by your sad story, Mr. Floyd,” said the sorrow-stricken mother. “You seem to have a good and sympathetic heart.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Floyd; “that is my weakness.”

“Don’t call it a weakness! It does you credit.”

Mr. Floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with Abner Trimble, who was pleased that his agent got off so creditably. He had evidently produced a good impression on Mrs. Trimble.

“You see, my dear,” he said, gently, “that there can be no doubt about poor Edward’s death. I have thought, under the circumstances, that you would feel like making a will, and seeing that I was suitably provided for. As matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, and second cousins at that, while I would be left out in the cold.

“I know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely to outlive me, but still, life is uncertain. I don’t care much for money, but I wouldn’t like to die destitute, and so I asked Mr. Coleman, the lawyer, to come round. I think I hear his ring now. Will you see him?”

“Yes, if you wish it. I care very little what becomes of the property now my boy is no more.”

Mr. Trimble went downstairs, and returned with a very respectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Coleman.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MAKING A WILL.

“Mr. Coleman,” said Trimble, with suavity, “this is my wife, Mrs. Trimble.”

The lawyer bowed.

“I believe you wish to execute a will, Mrs. Trimble?” said he.

“Yes,” answered the poor mother, in a spiritless tone.

Various questions were asked in relation to the property, and then the lawyer seated himself at a table and wrote the formal part of the will.

“I understand you wish to leave the entire property to your husband?” he said, in a tone of inquiry.

“In the event of my son’s death,” interpolated Mrs. Trimble.

“But, my dear, he is dead,” said Abner Trimble, with a slight frown.

“I would prefer to have it expressed in this way.”

“I am sure,” continued Trimble, annoyed, “that Mr. Coleman will consider it unnecessary.”

“I see no objections to it,” said the lawyer. “Of course, the son being dead, it won’t count.”

“Mr. Coleman,” explained Mrs. Trimble, “I have no reason to doubt my poor son’s death, but I didn’t see him die, and there may have been a mistake.”

“How can there be?” demanded Trimble, impatiently. “Didn’t my friend Floyd see him drowned?”

“He may have been mistaken. Besides, he only says he did not see him after the boat upset. He may have been picked up by some other boat.”

For the first time Trimble and Floyd saw the flaw in the story, which had been invented by Trimble himself.

“Was there any boat near, Floyd?” asked Trimble, winking significantly.

“No, sir; not within a quarter of a mile.”

“Edward could swim. He may have reached one by swimming.”

This was news to Trimble. He had not been aware that his stepson could swim.

“Under the circumstances,” said the lawyer, “I think Mrs. Trimble is right.”

Trimble looked panic-stricken. Knowing that Edward Granger was still living he recognized the fact that such a will would do him no good.

“If he were alive he would let us know,” he said, after a pause.

“Probably he would.”

“So that we may conclude he is dead.”

“It might be stipulated that if the missing son does not appear within three years from the time the will is made he may be regarded as dead?” suggested the lawyer.

“One year would be sufficient, it seems to me,” put in Trimble.

“I would rather make it three,” said his wife.

Abner Trimble looked disappointed, but did not dare object.

The lawyer continued to write.

“I understand, then,” he observed, “that you bequeath all your estate to your husband, in the event of your son being decided to be dead.”

Mrs. Trimble paused to consider.

“I think,” she said, “I will leave the sum of five thousand dollars to charitable purposes as a memorial of Edward.”

“I don’t think much of charitable societies,” growled Trimble.

“Some of them do a great deal of good,” said the lawyer. “Are there any particular societies which you would wish to remember, Mrs. Trimble?”

“I leave the choice to my executor,” said the lady.

“Whom have you selected for that office?”

“Will you serve?” she asked.

“Then you don’t care to appoint Mr. Trimble?”

“No, I think not.”

“It is customary to appoint the husband, isn’t it, Mr. Coleman?” asked Abner.

“It is quite often done.”

“I would prefer you,” said Mrs. Trimble, decidedly.

“If it will ease your mind, I will take the office, Mrs. Trimble.”

“Now,” said the lawyer, after a brief interval; “I will read the draft of the will as I have written it, and you can see if it meets your views.”

He had about half completed reading the document when there was heard a sharp ring at the doorbell. Then there were steps on the stairs.

A terrible surprise was in store for Mrs. Trimble.