In the two hours we were together I gave Dr. Harding as detailed information as I could. I showed him my copies of the guardianship papers and the adoption papers, and he looked them over very carefully and took notes upon them. I showed him the letters I had from his brother, the early letters which contained no love allusions and which Mr. Harding had permitted me to keep. These letters did not interest him much, apparently. He seemed particularly interested in dates and exact places. I wondered vaguely at his wanting these so definitely, for up to that time they had remained with me only because of their dear associations, and it had not occurred to me that anyone would care to trace them. It seemed inconceivable that anyone should doubt my story, hearing it from my own lips. However, this was Dr. Harding’s manner of ascertaining facts, and I was eager to help him in any way I could. I volunteered to go with him, or alone, to the hotels where his brother and I had been, in an endeavor to trace for him the exact dates in the instances where I could not recall the day, week, or month.
I inquired of him if he knew of a particular physical trouble his brother had. He looked at me questioningly and I explained. The doctor disclaimed knowledge of this condition, and I concluded that he had not professionally looked after his brother’s ailments.
I described the layout of Mr. Harding’s senate offices, and told the doctor I had been in both of them, and gave him the numbers on the doors.
It seemed to me that Dr. Harding evidenced some irritancy at my frankness, and indeed I gave him only the opportunity of squeezing in his “wheres?” and “whens?” edgewise. But there was so much to tell, and my only fear was that I would not tell everything. However, I had been very tired even when I started, and finally I became actually voice-tired. The doctor’s expression throughout had remained stonily impassive, even when I drew pictures so sacred to me that my body shook with feeling at their remembrance. Now he looked up.
“Well, what is your idea of a settlement provided we can ascertain these things to be true which you state to be facts?” I thought, “Oh, sweetheart Warren, you know how difficult this has been for me! You know how it hurts me, cruelly, cruelly, not to be believed!”
Then I said to Dr. Harding in a voice which seemed to me suddenly strengthened, “I think Elizabeth Ann should have that to which she is rightly entitled as his daughter.”
Dr. Harding looked up quickly, his face full of consternation—the first visible signs during our conference that he was moved at all by my revelations.
“Why, you mean—” he stammered, “you mean all of the Harding Estate—for that would be what she would get as his daughter!”
Oh, God! I thought. Was Tim Slade right, after all? Could it be possible that these people, these Hardings, were loath to part with money, even a little of the money left to them by the man whose daughter’s rightful claims I had been prosecuting with my spoken words? Impossible! I spoke with outward calm to the doctor.
“No, I do not mean that at all. I mean that she should get a fair amount, say $50,000, to be put into a trust fund so that she would have a monthly income to live upon.”