"What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?"
"What do you mean?" he faltered.
"Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?"
"I am at a loss to understand your meaning."
"No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?"
"Who told you this?"
"It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now—it isn't so many years ago—I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about."
"Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily.
"I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now."
"Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously—"not ten thousand dollars—and I handed it to his family."