Betty's face was tense now with the earnestness of her convictions. "You may think me foolish, and perhaps I shouldn't say this, but Guardy, I don't approve of your using father's money like that."
"Don't, eh?" grunted Hiram, then rising from his chair, he walked back and forth with frowns and queer little nods of his massive head. Presently his face cleared and, stopping before Betty, he laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder.
"Child, it looks as if I'll have to explain a few things to you," he said, "that I didn't mean to talk about. You say ye don't approve of speculatin' in Wall Street. Neither do I. I got into this copper campaign because—well, it ain't exactly my fault and—anyhow, there are times when a man's got to fight fer his life. It's that way with me just now. As to usin' yer father's money——" He hesitated before the steady challenge of her waiting eyes. "Bryce Thompson and I were partners in business for twenty-five years. He was my best friend and—ye know I wouldn't breathe a word against his memory?"
"I know," said the girl. "Go on."
"Betty, yer father didn't leave any money." He spoke tenderly but firmly.
In a dull way she repeated the words. "He—he didn't leave any—money." Her voice trailed off into sickening silence.
"Ye know how generous yer father was and—he made unfortunate investments and—when his estate was settled up there wasn't anything left."
"Nothing left!" she murmured, then rousing herself as a new thought came. "But—all this money that you've been sending me?"
"I was glad to do it, Betty."
"It wasn't my money? I had no right to it? Oh!" She stared at him helplessly as the full realization broke upon her.