“Oh, yes, of course,” she returned, apparently gratified that this was still August. “Tell Buck to bring the car around at ten o’clock,” she said. “She’s come out of her swoon, Buck, and wants you to have the car ready at ten,” was the news Maria carried back to the kitchen. “Whar is we gwine?” he asked. “I dunno. But ef I knows Miss Helen like I thinks I does, they ain’t gwine to be no grass growin’ under your feet no time soon.” She was polishing Mrs. Cutter’s pumps during this conversation. Now she started back with them. She was about to lay her hand upon the knob of Helen’s door when she stiffened, turned her head to one side and listened. The sound of a voice issued through this door, one voice, Helen’s. She was alone in there with her God, but it was obvious to Maria that this was not any woman’s praying voice. Neither were the astounding words she heard suitable for prayer. The fat old negress bent, laid her ear against the keyhole, rolled her eyes and listened. Then, as if she could not bear the amazement of what she heard, she flew back to the kitchen, caught hold of the astonished Buck and moaned: “Oh, my Lord; oh, my Lord! And her a white ’oman!” “What’s de matter wid you, gal?” he demanded, shaking himself from her grasp and staring at her. She refused to tell him. She implied that such information as she had might cost them both their innocent lives, if she should repeat it. “You don’t know nothin’, and you ain’t heard nothin’,” he retorted, going out, pausing at the door long enough to point at the pumps which she still held in her hand. “You better take dem shoes to Miss Helen, er she’ll be tellin’ you somethin’,” he warned her. Shortly after ten o’clock Mrs. George William Cutter appeared at the Shannon National Bank. She wanted to look at some papers in her safety deposit box, she told the cashier. She remained a long time closeted with this box. When she came out she carried a sheaf of coupons in her hand; and she was very pale, not gratified as a woman should look under these circumstances. Beneath the coupons there was a check, drawn on a New York bank for ten thousand dollars and signed by her husband. This check lay on top when she opened the box; attached to it was a note stating with studied brevity that this sum, including interest, was the amount she inherited from her mother’s estate, which he “herewith returned.” It began, “Dear Helen,” and was signed, “George,” with no softening, affectionate prefix.