"But he said the interest due, if I recall his words, was one hundred and fifty dollars."
"That's right—fifteen per cent."
"Fifteen per cent? Great spark-plugs! Why, that's usury."
"Not out here. Harry borrowed the money on our homestead, up in Wells County. He needed it to build his aëroplane, and he needed a lot more that he raised by selling his live stock and farming tools and some of the furniture. He thought he'd get everything back when he showed what the aëroplane could do, and sold it to the government. But—but the very machine that was to make our fortune has taken his life, and—and what am I to do?"
Mrs. Traquair's face went down into her reddened, toil-worn hands again.
"There may be a way out of this, Mrs. Traquair," said Matt. "It's clear, I think, that Murgatroyd is a thief and a scoundrel. If he didn't believe there was merit in your husband's invention he wouldn't be trying to get hold of it. Have you any drawings, or papers from the patent office, that I can look at to get an idea of what the aëroplane is like?"
"There is a model——"
"Good! A model will do better than anything else."
Mrs. Traquair went into another room and brought out an old "telescope" grip. Unbuckling the straps with fingers that still trembled, she lifted out of the grip and held up for Matt's inspection the beautifully constructed model of an aëroplane.