“Yes,” she replied quietly, after one startled look, “I am the nurse. I infer that Mrs. Vincent has been here.”
“She has just left,” said Murray.
“Her attentions,” said the nurse bitterly, “have been confined to an effort to get prompt news of her husband’s death.”
Murray knew instinctively that a little drama of life was opening before him, but his duty was clear.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “the policy is in her name.”
“In her name!” cried the nurse. “Why, he told me—” Then she stopped short. She would not betray his perfidy, even if he had been false to her.
“What did he tell you?” asked Murray kindly.
“No matter,” answered the nurse. “I—I only wanted enough to defray the—the necessary expenses. That’s why I came. There isn’t a cent—not a cent. Even the little money I had has been used, and there are debts—But she’ll pay, of course.”
Murray was deeply distressed. Mrs. Albert Vincent was so bitter—possibly with justification, although he did not like to believe it—that she would do nothing; her feeling was simply one of deep resentment that even death could not allay. But he hesitated to say so.
“Let me understand this matter a little better,” he said at last. “I am sincerely anxious to be of any assistance possible, but the circumstances are unusual.”