“I was thinking—of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton,” she answered, not looking up.
“Oh, you were!” There was an odd something in Mr. Smith’s voice.
“Yes. I was wondering—about those twenty millions.”
“Oh, you were!” The odd something had increased, but Miss Maggie’s eyes were still dreamily fixed on space.
“Yes. I was wondering what he had done with them.”
“Had done with them!”
“Yes, in the letter, I mean.” She looked up now in faint surprise. “Don’t you remember? There was a letter—a second letter to be opened in two years’ time. They said that that was to dispose of the remainder of the property—his last will and testament.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” assented Mr. Smith, turning on his heel again. “Then you think—Mr. Fulton is—dead?” Mr. Smith was very carefully not meeting Miss Maggie’s eyes.
“Why, yes, I suppose so.” Miss Maggie turned back to her meditative gazing at nothing. “The two years are nearly up, you know,—I was talking with Jane the other day—just next November.”
“Yes, I know.” The words were very near a groan, but at once Mr. Smith hurriedly repeated, “I know—I know!” very lightly, indeed, with an apprehensive glance at Miss Maggie.