Donald ceased his efforts to light the cigar, threw the box of matches, which Mr. Brennan had handed him, upon the desk, and looked up.
“Yes. I was there on Saturday. I left Saturday night. I had a disagreement with Mrs. Rogers. That’s what I came to see you about.”
Mr. Brennan raised his eyebrows, put on his glasses slowly, and inspected his caller with deliberate care. “I’m very sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “Nothing serious, I trust?”
“I’m afraid it is—very.”
“Hm-m. Dear me! And what can I do in the matter?”
“You are a friend of both Mrs. Rogers and myself. I want your advice. I want you to see her—to talk to her.”
“What’s the trouble?” Brennan sat back in his chair, prepared to listen, with a grave suspicion in his mind as to the cause of Donald’s heavy eyes and careworn face.
“Before I can discuss the matter with you, Mr. Brennan, I want to ask you one question.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Do you know why West left his money to my wife?”