“He made me stay in the cab both times,” she went on, “and the second time—when he had me sign his wife’s name—he seemed—”
“Had you sign his wife’s name!” exclaimed Murray. “To what?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “It was a formality, he said, to straighten out some tangle, so I did it. I would have done anything to ease his mind and get him back to bed.”
Murray gave a low whistle. He was beginning to understand the situation.
“Pardon me, Miss—” he said.
“Miss Bronson—Amy Bronson,” she explained.
Murray had heard of Miss Bronson some years before. She had suddenly given up society to become a trained nurse, and there had been vague rumors of an unhappy love affair. Later, her father’s death had left her dependent upon her own resources, and society had commented on what a fortunate thing it was that she had already chosen an occupation and fitted herself for it. He never had known her, and only a bare suggestion of the story had come to his notice, but it was sufficient to make him more than ever her champion now.
“Miss Bronson,” he said, “I fear there are greater complications here than I had supposed. Did Mr. Vincent get any money on either of those trips?”
“Yes. On the second he told me that he closed up an old deal, and he was more contented after that. After the first he was so dreadfully disturbed, that I never dared ask him any questions.”
“Do you know where the insurance policy is?”