Eaton read the check, mentally verified the interest and opened the top drawer of his desk.
“There are four notes of twenty-five thousand each,” he remarked, as he bent over his desk and wrote “Paid” across the four slips of paper. “They were made to me—you remember? As I told you at the time, I wasn’t making the advance myself, and I deserve no thanks for negotiating the loan—none whatever. You’re entitled to the canceled notes, of course; but perhaps you’ll be satisfied to let me destroy them here in your presence. The reason for that is that I endorsed the notes to the person who made the advance, to protect your creditor in case of my death. That person is very anxious not to be known in the matter.”
“I think I ought to know,” Copeland replied. “A debt like that can’t just be passed over. I’d be more comfortable if I knew.”
“Perhaps—” began Eaton.
Copeland shook his head and put out his hand.
Eaton bent a quick, penetrating glance upon him, then gave him the notes. Copeland’s face went white as he read the endorsements.
“Fanny!” he gasped chokingly. He bent forward and grasped Eaton’s arm. “This is a trick; a ghastly joke! She never would have done it; no human being would have done this after—after—”
“No human being—no!” replied Eaton, swinging round in his chair so that he did not face Copeland for a moment.
Copeland’s hand shook as he looked again at the endorsements.
“But, Eaton, you had no right to do it! You knew I wouldn’t have taken her help—not—after—”