“Yes, that is the sad truth, Mr. Culpepper,” the widow admitted.
“But with a family of children to bring up how are you going to live from now on, when before this happened you had barely enough? If you would seriously consider the proposition I make you, and become Mrs. Culpepper, your children would have a good home.”
“That is very generous of you, Mr. Culpepper,” Carl heard his mother say, while he fairly held his breath in suspense for fear she might agree to what the other asked; “but I cannot change my mind. I never expect to marry again.”
“But how can you get along, I want to know?” he demanded, angrily. “It takes money to live, and you will see the children you love suffer.”
“There is one resource still left,” she told him, as though urged to put him to the test. “It lies in those shares of oil stock which you are holding for me. They have become very valuable, and when I dispose of them I hope to have enough and to spare for all future needs.”
There was a brief and awkward silence.
“But what evidence is there,” he finally asked icily, “that you ever placed any shares of stock in my hand, or even so, that they were not delivered to you again? Of course you can show my name at the bottom of a receipt if that is the fact?”
“Is that absolutely necessary, Mr. Culpepper?” she asked, helplessly.
“It is strictly business, madam,” the visitor went on, in his cold, cutting tones that were like the rasping of a file. “I could not think of handing over anything of value that was in my possession without receiving in return a receipt.”
“But you would not be so cruel as to deprive my children of their bread simply because of a little technicality, sir? I will do anything the law demands to insure that you are not held liable whether the lost receipt is ever found again or not.”