“Do you know that Reisen instructed his wife about six months ago, in the event of his death or disability, to place all her interests in your hands, and to be guided by your advice in everything?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Richling, “he can’t do that! He should have asked my consent.”
“I suppose he knew he wouldn’t get it. He’s a cunning simpleton.”
“But, Doctor, if you knew this”—Richling ceased.
“Six months ago. Why didn’t I tell you?” said the physician. “I thought I would, Richling, though Reisen bade me not, when he told me; I made no promise. But time, that you think goes slow, was too fast for me.”
“I shall refuse to serve,” said Richling, soliloquizing aloud. “Don’t you see, Doctor, the delicacy of the position?”
“Yes, I do; but you don’t. Don’t you see it would be just as delicate a matter for you to refuse?”
Richling pondered, and presently said, quite slowly:—
“It will look like coming down out of the tree to catch the apples as they fall,” he said. “Why,” he added with impatience, “it lays me wide open to suspicion and slander.”
“Does it?” asked the Doctor, heartlessly. “There’s nothing remarkable in that. Did any one ever occupy a responsible position without those conditions?”