“Perhaps. Gordon is poor—Trevor rich; apparently the balance dipped in the latter’s favor. It is not the first time souls have been bought and honor lost by the desire for filthy lucre. Mind you, Dick, this last is all surmise. I may be entirely wrong. You can use the information I have given you if you think best; and I’ll be here if you want to consult me about it.”
“Which way are you going?” asked Dick.
“To the War Department, and you—?”
“To the office. I’ll drop in and see you sometime to-morrow. It’s bully having you back again, old man. So long,” and with a parting hand shake the two friends parted.
Dick was very tired when he reached his home in Georgetown that night. His landlady heard his key turn in the lock and came out in the hall to meet him.
Mrs. Brisbane, “befo’ de wah,” had not known what it was to put on her own silk stockings; now, she took “paying guests.” Her husband and brothers had died for “The Cause”; her property near Charleston, South Carolina, had been totally destroyed during the horrors of the Reconstruction period. She had come to Washington, that Mecca for unemployed gentlewomen, in hopes of adding to her slender income. For years she had been employed in the Post Office Department, as a handwriting expert. Then suddenly her eyesight failed her; and broken in health and hopes, she and her young granddaughter kept the wolf from the door and a roof over their heads as best they could.
Dick was devoted to Mrs. Brisbane. Her gentle dignity and indomitable pluck in the face of every misfortune had won his admiration and respect. He had lived with them for over three years, and was looked upon as one of the family.
“You are late, Dick,” she said. “Have you had a busy day?”
“Yes, Mrs. Brisbane,” he answered, “and I’m dog tired, having been on the dead jump ever since I left here this morning.”
“Not too tired to come into the dining-room and help us celebrate my seventieth birthday, I hope?”