“Not now; we can’t pay the bills. But there’s nothing a doctor can do more than I am doing myself.”
“What has become of my uncle’s money, Elaine?” she asked, regarding the woman attentively.
Elaine flushed, but shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“He was never a spendthrift, nor a gambler,” continued Judith. “On the contrary, I knew him as a wealthy man who was so penurious that he guarded every expenditure with great care.”
The woman made no reply.
“What do you suppose became of the money?” Judith pointedly inquired. “He sold off his property at fair prices. I’m sure that he didn’t speculate. Then what has become of it?”
“I only know,” said Elaine, “that when he was took with this stroke there wasn’t a dollar to be found anywhere. He wasn’t a miser, for I’ve ransacked every corner of this house. There wasn’t anything in the bank, either, for I inquired there. I’ve looked over all of his papers—with Judge Ferguson to help me—and Mr. Eliot hadn’t any investments or stocks. His money was gone, somehow, and we don’t know where because he can’t tell.”
Judith thought it over. It was a perplexing thing, indeed.
“Why do you stay here?” she asked. “You are not obligated to devote your life to my bankrupt uncle—a helpless invalid who does not appreciate your services.”