“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.