“After the excitement of signing the codicil, my wife suffered a relapse, and was not expected to live through the night. If she dies”—the Admiral shaded his eyes, which had grown moist, with his hand—“only the unsigned codicil is here; therefore Chichester Barnard, by the terms of her will, will inherit her bequest. However, my wife still lives, and when she regains consciousness I shall have her sign this carbon copy,” opening his desk drawer and removing a folded paper. “After all, you were only partially successful.”
“To succeed, one must first undertake,” retorted Marjorie. “Tell me, please, if you thought I would betray your trust, why did you give me the codicil to place in the safe?”
“First, because I was not aware you knew the contents of the paper; secondly, I never knew there was a carbon copy; thirdly, my wife’s precarious condition effectually put out of my mind your infatuation for Chichester Barnard.”
“My infatuation?” echoed Marjorie, a slow, painful blush creeping up her white cheeks. “You are hardly complimentary, Admiral.”
“Put it any way you wish,” he replied wearily. “I must ask you to hurry and gather your belongings, Miss Langdon, for I must return to my wife.”
“I shan’t be a minute.” Stung by his tone, Marjorie hurried to her desk and rapidly put the drawers in order. As she covered the typewriter she paused and gazed about the pleasant, sunlit room through tear-dimmed eyes. She had spent many happy hours there, for both Admiral and Mrs. Lawrence had done much to make her comfortable, and the work had been interesting and comparatively easy. What had induced the Admiral to credit so monstrous a charge against her? She stiffened with indignation, and picking up the key of her desk, walked over to him. He looked up at her approach, and the full light from the window betrayed the increasing lines and wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. His hair had whitened, and his usually ruddy cheeks were pale.
“Here is the key of my desk,” she said, laying it down before him. “The carbon copy of your book is in the right-hand drawer, and your official and business correspondence fills the other drawers. Will you please examine them before I leave.”
He rose in silence and went swiftly through the contents of the typewriter desk. “Everything is correct,” he acknowledged, noting with inward approval the neat and orderly arrangement of his correspondence.
“Then I will leave; my hat and coat are downstairs,” and with a formal bow Marjorie turned toward the door.
“One moment;” the Admiral stepped back to his own desk. “You forget your check; I have made it out for one month in advance, in lieu of notice.”