"Do you mean to insult me? Haven't I told you it was not paid?"
"Do you expect me to pay it to you, then?" asked Mrs. Burton.
"Widder, I am surprised you should ask such a foolish question. It lies in a nutshell. I'm entitled to interest on the money I let your husband have on mortgage. You admit that?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad you admit that. As your husband didn't pay, I look to you for it. I can say no more."
Mrs. Burton took a pocket-book from a pocket in her dress, and handed it to Robert. Bob opened it, and drew therefrom a folded paper.
"Mr. Wolverton," he said, quietly, "I hold in my hand a receipt signed by yourself for the interest—one hundred and fifty dollars—dated the very day that my poor father died. What have you to say to it?"
Mr. Wolverton sprang to his feet, pale and panic-stricken.
"Where did you get that paper?" he stammered, hoarsely.
