Mrs. Emmett walked away, shaking her head. Near the telephone was an old rocking-chair, and Nan sank down in it weakly. The one person in the whole world who had been a real friend to her had been snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Nan didn’t know what to do. She knew there was no use of her going to the hospital, at least, not that night.
It was draughty there in the hall, so she stumbled back up the stairs, and sat down in her room, her knees weak from the shock. The rain whipped dismally against the windows, coming in from the bay, where the fog-horns bellowed unceasingly. She had propped Madge’s letter against a book on the table, and now she picked it up. It was postmarked Lobo Wells, Arizona.
Perhaps this letter would give a clue to Madge’s relatives, she mused. With no thought of anything but a desire to help in the matter, she opened the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It was a typewritten letter, and pinned to it was a cheque for one hundred dollars, made out to Madge Singer.
Nan looked it over curiously. It was drawn on the Bank of Lobo Wells, and signed with an inky scrawl, which she finally deciphered. The letter read:
“My dear Miss Singer,—Your uncle, Jim Singer, has passed away, and his last will and testament, executed by me, shows you to be his sole heir. Am enclosing certified cheque for one hundred dollars for your expenses, as I expect you to come here at once.
“As I understand it, you have never known your uncle personally, and have never been in Lobo Wells. Come direct here, go to the hotel and get in communication with me at once.
“Very truly yours,
“Amos A. Baggs,
“Attorney at Law.”
Nan stared at the letter, trying to understand what it meant. Finally she realised that possibly Madge had taken the name of Allan as a theatrical nom de plume, and that her family name was Singer. Perhaps, thought Nan, this inheritance was the money Madge had spoken of “falling into soon.” Madge had mentioned some relative in Arizona, and Nan thought she had mentioned a cousin; but it might have been an uncle.
Nan fingered the hundred-dollar cheque. It was more money than she had possessed in over a year. It was certified. Any one signing Madge Singer’s name to it could draw the money. And Madge Singer was dead. Nan shut her hand tightly over the cheque.
“There is no Madge Singer,” she told herself. “Only Lobo Wells, Arizona, knows that there ever was a Madge Singer. Why not cash the cheque?”
Nan was not a crook, but adversity caused her to grasp at straws. She needed clothes. This cheque would solve that problem. It would pay her room rent, give her a chance. She stared at the rain-washed window and at the four walls of the shabby room. Madge Allan’s rather hard, mocking laughter seemed still to echo from those walls. She had often laughed at Nan and told her to go ahead and gamble with life.
“Bluff them, kid,” she had often advised. “You don’t need to be bad to bluff. Life is a gamble and a fight; but the fight is a lot easier if you bluff the gamblers. Take all you can get.”