"Now you are overtaxing your strength talking, dear," said Brenda, arranging the bedclothes. "You must be quiet and try and rest."
"Yes, do," said Mr. Scarse. "I want to have a few words with Brenda."
So Harold lay back, and, after a time, fell into a sleep. His wife told off one of the nurses to stay beside him, and herself went out with her father. When they had gone a short distance he explained why he wished to speak privately with her.
"Brenda," he said, "a will was found on Van Zwieten. It seems that there is a sum of some five thousand pounds standing to his credit at one of the London banks."
"Really, father; I never thought he was so well off. Evidently spying paid. To whom has he left it?"
"To you, my dear!"
"To me?" She could hardly believe her ears. "I would not take it if I were starving. I hated the man. How could I touch his money?"
"But, Brenda, think for a moment; is it not foolish to throw it away? Five thousand pounds is a large sum."
"No, no, no!" repeated the girl, vehemently. "I will not touch it, I tell you. That money was made out of spying and working evil against England. I am sure Harold would think as I do about it."
And so Harold did think. Later on, when she returned, she found him just awakened out of a refreshing sleep, and she told him of Van Zwieten's strange bequest. He refused at once to accept it, and commended her for having forestalled him in the decision.