"I don't know," Mrs. Grant hesitated. "If he didn't want it published—"
"But he's gone now," Browne reminded her.
"I know, but—" She wept softly into a crumpled kerchief.
The publisher remained silent. After a moment she pulled herself together. "He was always so absent-minded. I was sure he had mislaid the check. Used it to scribble some problem on. He did that once several years ago."
Browne reached into his breast-pocket and brought out a long envelope and extended it toward her.
"I had another check made out for advance royalties," he said, "if you decide to let me go ahead with the book."
"I don't think I should, Mr. Browne." She withdrew the check from the envelope and looked at it, her eyebrows lifting at the size of the figure.
"It's substantially more than the original check," Browne said. "I thought perhaps you might be in need of money, and I feel confident the book will sell exceptionally well."
"It is a lot of money," Mrs. Grant said. "But I'm so confused. I wish I knew what to do."
Browne leaned forward. "Your husband was a great man. I feel it as an obligation on my part to make public his last work."