She hurried out into the hall, and Frank shut the door after her, and then came back to the table, and began to urge upon Roger the acceptance of a portion, at least, of the immense fortune, which a few hours before he had believed to be all his own. But Roger stopped him short. “Don’t, Frank,” he said. “I know you mean it now, and, perhaps, would mean it always, but so long as that clause stands against me, I can take nothing from the Irvings.” He pointed to the words “the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving,” and Frank rejoined, “It was a cruel thing for him to do.” “Yes; but a far wickeder, crueller thing, to poison his mind with slanders, until he did it,” Roger replied, as he turned to his sister, and said, “Helen, I hold you guilty of my ruin, if what Hester has told us be true; but I shall not reproach you; I will let your own conscience do that.” Mrs. Irving tried to say that Hester had spoken falsely, that she had never worked upon the weak old man’s jealousy of his young wife; but she could not quite utter so glaring a falsehood, knowing or believing, as she did, that Magdalen had the letter, which might refute her lie. So she assumed an air of lofty dignity, and answered back that it was unnecessary to continue the conversation, which had been far more personal than the questions involved required,—neither was it needful to prolong the interview. The matter of the will was now between him and Frank, and, with his permission, she would withdraw. Roger simply inclined his head, to indicate his willingness for her to leave, and, with a haughty bow, she swept from the room, signalling to Frank to follow. But Frank did not heed her. He tarried for a few moments, standing close to Roger, and mechanically toying with the pens and pencils upon the table. He did not feel at all comfortable, nor like a man who had suddenly become possessed of hundreds of thousands. He felt rather like a thief, or, at best, an usurper of another’s rights, and would have been glad at that moment had the will been lying in its box under the floor, where it had lain so many years. Roger was the first to speak. “Go, Frank,” he said; “leave me alone for to-night. It is better so. I know what you want to say, but it can do no good. Things are as they are, and we cannot change them. I do not blame you. Don’t think I do. I always liked you, Frank, always, since we were boys together, and I like you still; but leave me now. I cannot bear any more.” Roger’s voice trembled, and Frank could see through the fast gathering darkness how white his face was and how he wiped the sweat-drops from his forehead and lips, and wringing his hand nervously, he, too, went away, and Roger was alone. CHAPTER XXV. MAGDALEN AND ROGER.