“Mrs. Wentworth,” he said at last, “every cent I have is at your husband’s disposal, if he needs it, but what you ask is utterly impossible. The risk would be refused at the home office, even if I passed it, for the fact that he has been refused by two other companies would be reported there.” In the case of another, Murray would have said more, but he knew that Mrs. Wentworth was quite beside herself and did not really appreciate that she was asking him to be dishonest with the company that employed him. “He wouldn’t touch a cent of the money of such a friend!” she exclaimed with sudden anger. “He’s not a beggar, and neither am I! All I seek for him is the tranquility that means life; all I ask is the removal of the anxiety that means death. And this little you will not do for a friend!” She was beside herself with desperation. It was bitter, it was harsh, it was unjustifiable, but Murray had forgiven her before she had ceased speaking. The depth of her feeling and the excitement under which she was laboring were sufficient to excuse her. But he felt as if he really were condemning his friend to death. Yet what could he do? He would cheerfully give a thousand dollars out of his own pocket to make things easier for the two suffering ones, but it was not a matter of ready cash. Wentworth had enough of that. In the deepest distress Murray was pacing back and forth when the door opened and Wentworth himself staggered in. Murray was at his side in a moment and guided him to a chair. “What’s the matter, old man?” “Lost everything,” Wentworth gasped. “Tried to protect—margined to limit—all gone!” “But your interest in the business?” “Sold it—to protect deal.” He seemed almost at the point of collapse, but he rallied for a moment. “Insurance!” he cried. “I must have it! Damn the company! You must put it through for me! You hear, Murray!” The man was almost crazy, and he spoke fiercely. “You’ve got to do it—for humanity’s sake! Can’t leave them penniless!” “We’ll talk about it to-morrow,” said Murray soothingly. “You lie, Murray!” the excited man cried. “You won’t do it at all; you’ll see them starve first, you—you dog! I’ll kill you, if you don’t—” Wentworth had risen in frenzied fury, as he pictured the future of his loved ones; he swayed for an instant, and Murray caught him as he fell. He was dead before Murray could get him back into the chair. * * * * * Murray did all that anyone could do for the bereaved woman, and more than any one else would have done, for the next day he sent her this letter: