"Who is Mr. Cumshaw, Jim?"
"I never heard of the man until I read this letter," I said. "He's a new element in the plot, and, unless your uncle's pulling our legs, I think he's going to be a very important factor."
"He's got to share with us, too," she reminded me.
"Share with you," I corrected. "I've told you a couple of times already that I'll help you to it, but that I don't intend to take a penny of the money. So, when you're figuring it out, remember it's halves, not thirds, you're working on."
"If it was anybody else but me you'd take it quickly enough," she said accusingly.
"Maybe I would and again maybe I wouldn't," I said with a smile.
"Oh, Jim, I hate you!" she cried in a sudden blaze of temper.
"I'm sorry," I said easily. "It doesn't take much to make you hate seemingly."
She turned and faced me with one of those swift changes of front that made her so hard to deal with. The white-hot anger had gone as suddenly as it had come, and in its place there was nothing but hopelessness. She looked so weary and so miserable that for the moment I was tempted to take her in my arms and tell her that the past did not matter any more than did the future. But the memory of the words with which she had driven me out of her life that summer's evening long ago lashed me like a whip, and in an instant I had hardened my heart.
"Why do you make it so hard for me, Jim?" she moaned. "If only you would help me a little."