"Nannie!"
"Somebody had to," she insisted, faintly.
Blair sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. "This is awful. I haven't a cent!"
"Oh," she said, with a gasp, "as far as that goes it doesn't make any difference, except about time. Mr. Ferguson said it didn't make any difference. I'll give it all back to you as soon as I get it. Only you'll have to give it back first."
"Nannie," he said, "for Heaven's sake, tell me straight, the whole thing."
She told him as well as she could; speaking with that minute elaboration of the unimportant so characteristic of minds like hers and so maddening to the listener. Blair, in a fury of anxiety, tried not to interrupt, but when she reached Mr. Ferguson's assertion that the certificate had been meant for David Richie, the worried color suddenly dropped out of his face.
"For—him? Nannie!"
"No, oh no! It wasn't for David, except just at first—before—not when—" She was perfectly incoherent, "Let me tell you," she besought him.
"If I thought she had meant it for him, I would send it to him before night! Tell me everything," he said, passionately.
"I'm trying to," Nannie stammered, "but you—you keep interrupting me. I'll tell you how it was, if you'll just let me, and not keep interrupting. Perhaps she did plan to give it to David. Mr. Ferguson said she planned to more than two years ago. And even when she was sick Mr. Ferguson thinks she still meant to."