"Well, I'll tell you, Matt, 'cause you're a good friend and you know how to hold your tongue. That boy out there, that poor numskull is the heir to a big enough fortune to f'nance twenty springs."
"He is?" returned Blake, astonished. "What do you mean?"
"His grandfather is one of the richest men in Boston. Went to see him once. Took my proofs with me. Wouldn't look at 'em. Turned me out. He's sick as the devil. Always travelin' 'round tryin' to get well. I wouldn't—I would not give him one cup o' this water." Gayne gestured impressively as he made the ferocious declaration. "Just come home from Europe now. Saw it in the paper," he added.
"Then he'll leave his money where it won't do you any good," said Blake.
"I'll break the will. I've thought it all out. I'm a man o' brains. Bert'll get the money."
"Perhaps the boy won't want to spend it on springs."
A crafty change came over Gayne's face and he smiled. "He won't have any say. I'm his guardian, ain't I? And he's non compos, ain't he? He'll be put where he belongs, believe me."
"You'll shut him up, do you mean?" asked Blake, frowning.
"F'r his own good. You understand?"
"Your guardian angel suggested that to you, too, probably."