"And, oh, yes," she added a moment later, "the man that killed Hargraves robbed him of ten thousand dollars—and of course Lawrence Challoner wouldn't rob a man, much less kill one—so don't you see, there's nothing in the story at all."
"I don't know," answered Miriam slowly, "whether he would or not."
"What!" gasped the girl.
"Don't misunderstand me," pleaded the woman. "There are two Lawrence Challoners—one is the man I love—that loves me; the other is the Lawrence Challoner who—well—I don't care," she added fiercely, "what he's done, I want him back." She sobbed for an instant. "You didn't know, Shirley, that we had a quarrel—I treated him badly, shamefully; he hasn't come back since."
"You quarrelled—you, Miriam!" The girl opened her eyes wide. "What about?"
"Money," admitted the conscience-stricken woman—"money. He wanted me to give him some—a perfectly natural request, wasn't it?—Men have got to have money," she went on, repeating his words, "and I wouldn't give him any. It was brutal in me—I can never forgive myself!"
A look of astonishment crossed Shirley's face.
"You wouldn't give him any money? And he didn't have any when he went away?"
Miriam wept. After a moment she answered:—
"No. My poor Laurie—think of him starving, freezing, perhaps dying!"