“Possibly,” remarked Murray, “he thought he could, but to permit a change in the beneficiary without the consent of the original beneficiary would be a blow at the very structure of life insurance. It would put a true and devoted wife at the absolute mercy of an unscrupulous or thoughtless husband: he could change the policy without her knowledge; he could sell it for the cash-surrender value; he could transfer it to a loan-shark to meet his personal or business needs—in fact, it would be no more than so much stock that could be reached by any creditor, and the trusting wife might find herself penniless. In this particular case the inability to make such a change may work injustice, but the ability to make it would work far greater injustice in practically all other instances. Mr. Vincent may have thought he could do this, and it is the very exceptional case when I most heartily wish it had been possible, but he doubtless made inquiries and found that it was not. When the beneficiary can be deprived of her interest without her knowledge and consent the value of insurance will be gone.” “Then that is what he learned,” she remarked, as if a question had been answered. “He was dreadfully worried before he became too ill to give much thought to business matters,” she added by way of explanation. “I thought it was because I was using my own little hoard to pay expenses, and, on the doctor’s advice, I went with him twice in a cab to see about some things that were worrying him, although even then he had no business to leave his bed. It was the lesser of two evils, the doctor said, for his mental distress was affecting his physical condition seriously. He said he never could rest until he had provided for those who had been good to him in adversity. But he didn’t mean me!” she exclaimed quickly. “He meant the doctor and some others who had been generous in the matter of credit. He knew why I—” She paused a moment, and then added: “But he wanted the others paid, and there was no one else he could trust.” “I quite understand,” said Murray encouragingly. “He made me stay in the cab both times,” she went on, “and the second time—when he had me sign his wife’s name—he seemed—” “Had you sign his wife’s name!” exclaimed Murray. “To what?” “I don’t know,” she answered. “It was a formality, he said, to straighten out some tangle, so I did it. I would have done anything to ease his mind and get him back to bed.” Murray gave a low whistle. He was beginning to understand the situation. “Pardon me, Miss—” he said. “Miss Bronson—Amy Bronson,” she explained.