It was after they had gone, and Edith had lain sobbing upon the bed for a long time, that Donald brought up the subject of her visit to Mr. Brennan’s office. “Perhaps I had better call him up in the morning and postpone it,” he said. “Any other day will do. There is no hurry, and I’m afraid, dear, that you are hardly in a condition to discuss business matters.”
“Oh—no—no. I’d better go and get it over with.” She dried her eyes and sat up, looking at him, half-frightened. “I’ll be all right in the morning. I’d better go.”
“Very well, if you think best. Of course I shall go with you, and, really, the whole affair need not take long.”
The thought that Donald was to be with her was terrifying. For a time she was afraid to speak. She did not know what Mr. Brennan might have learned about herself and West—what information might have come to him along with the dead man’s papers and effects. Suppose Donald were to find out. She glanced at his careworn face, upon which the lines of suffering were set deep, and her heart smote her. He must never find out. After a time she spoke.
“I think, Donald, that perhaps I had better go alone.”
“Why?” He seemed surprised.
“Oh—I can hardly say. Mr. Brennan might prefer it so. Don’t you think it would look just a little—bad—for both of us to go—as though we were so anxious for poor—Billy’s—money?” Her tears broke out afresh.
He regarded the idea as a foolish whim, born of her hysterical condition, but good-naturedly humored her. “I’m not at all anxious to go,” he said. “Poor Billy—I don’t want his money. I only suggested going with you because I thought you would rather not go alone. We can decide in the morning, however. You’d better lie down now, and try to get some sleep.”
Edith began slowly to undress. As she did so, the letter from West, which she had been carrying about in her bosom all day, fell to the floor. Donald picked it up with a queer little smile and returned it to her. “Poor old Billy!” he murmured. “How strange, to think that we shall never see his handwriting again!”