“That is the merest conjecture, Stephen. I must say that Ben's imaginative faculty is well developed.” He was feeling tolerably secure again, evidently Wade had not gone as deep as he had at first feared was the case. But Stephen's next words undeceived him.
“I haven't made it clear to you, Uncle Jake,” he said, in a low voice. “But Ben asserts that you sold the land for fifty thousand dollars, that you induced Aunt Virginia to sell it by representing that it was valueless—or nearly so.”
Stephen felt that the worst was over with; now Benson knew all that he knew. He did not look at him, he could not meet his glance. There was a long pause, then Benson said slowly.
“To have handed over five thousand dollars was one thing, I might do that to save myself from possible annoyance; but when they talk of sums like this, I am not so sure that my first idea was not a mere weakness.” He rose from his chair. “Good-night, Stephen. I think I will go to my room.” He made an uncertain step toward the door, and Stephen sprang to his side.
“For God's sake, don't think—don't think—” he could not bring himself to say it. It was like a fresh insult to this hurt man.
“What am I not to think?” asked Benson.
“That I knew anything of this until they sent for me! They wanted me to tell you, and I agreed, I thought it would be less painful to you if you heard it from me, otherwise Wade—'
“Wade! That scum! That scoundrel! He'd better keep out of my way!” cried the old man, his eyes blazing.
“I told them,” Stephen hurried on, “that they were mistaken.”
“You were right, Stephen, they are mistaken—but the ingratitude of it!” he stumbled weakly toward the door.