“If you are a trustee of Miss Walton,” I said, growing cool in my agony of shame, “can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?”
That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern.
“How much did my father—How much did Miss Walton lose?” I inquired.
“One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six thousand.”
“Was that amount net?”
“Yes.”
“Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” I added, rising. “I am only sorry, after your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am grateful for both.” In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held out his.
“Mr. Maitland,” he rejoined, “I’m a pretty good judge of men, and I don’t believe you have done wrong knowingly.”