"I let you have some money three days ago," said Mrs. Lane, frowning. "What did you do with it?" "It was only three dollars." "That is a good deal of money for a boy of your age. You seem to think I am made of money." "You mustn't get mean, ma. Why, Mr. Lane left you as much as fifty thousand dollars. I have heard you say so." "I will give you two dollars, and not a cent more. Don't ask me for any more for a week." Abel did not commit himself, but taking the money, went down the street, where he soon spent part of it playing pool with a young man of not the best reputation. Mrs. Lane sat down at her desk, and began to examine her accounts. "Fifty thousand dollars!" she mused. "Yes, it is a goodly sum, and will maintain Abel and myself in comfort all our lives. I am sorry he is growing so extravagant. I shall have to check him. In one month I shall hand in my final accounts, and shall come into undisputed possession of my money. Then I shall be able to carry out the plan I have had in view so long, and will make a tour of Europe with Abel. I am told that it does not cost as much to travel in Europe as in this country. There, free from all money cares, I can enjoy myself. I can hardly wait for the time to come." She closed her book and leaned back in her chair, in complacent thought. But her meditation was soon interrupted. "There's a gentleman below wishes to see you, Mrs. Lane," said Susan, the servant. "Who is it? Did you ever see him before?" "No, ma'am." "What name did he give?" "Here's his card, ma'am. I came near forgetting to give it to you." Mrs. Lane took the card from the servant's hand, and glanced at it. She turned pale and uttered a half exclamation. Of all men in the world John Graves was about the last she wished to see. It was he who had deposited thirty thousand dollars in her husband's hands, and now, doubtless, he had come to claim it. This would take away more than half of the fortune on whose possession she had been congratulating herself. What should she do? While she was considering this difficult question, Mr. Graves was ushered into the room. He was a man of somewhat less than medium size, sixty years of age, but looking considerably older on account of his white hair and beard. "Mrs. Lane?" he said inquiringly. "That's my name," she answered stiffly. "I have been living in Australia," he resumed, "for many years. Circumstances cut me off from news, and it is only since I came to Portville that I learned the sad news of your husband's death." Mrs. Lane did not reply, but regarded him with a frosty air. "It seems my poor friend has been dead nearly two years?" "Yes." John Graves regarded her with some surprise, so cold and repelling was her manner. "Our relations were very confidential," continued Graves. "Before I went away I deposited in your husband's hands, as he doubtless told you, the sum of thirty thousand dollars."