“I am all attention,” said Framlingham, lifting the sleepy Whisky on to his knee. “I have found out,” she continued, “that the money got together by my late father was nearly all gained in bad ways, cruel ways, dishonest ways.” “That does not surprise me,” said Framlingham. “Most self-made men are made by questionable means. Go on.” “If he had his deserts he would have been spurned by everyone,” said Katherine, whose voice shook and was very low. “I have reason to believe that the man who killed him had been cheated by him out of a tin mine. I traced that man. He was driven wild by want. His blood is on us and on the money.” “I thought no one knew who killed Massarene?” “No one does know. I found letters. I traced their writer. There would be no use in publicity. His case was not worse than that of others. But he was miserable and alone. He took his revenge. At least I believe so. I have gone through all my father’s documents, and ledgers, and records. His whole life was one course of selfish, merciless, unprincipled gain. His earlier economies were made out of the navvies, and miners, and squatters who frequented a low gambling den which he kept in what was then the small township of Kerosene. All his money is accursed. It is all blood-money. I cannot spend a sixpence of it without shame.” She spoke still in low tones and gently, but with intense though restrained feeling. Framlingham scarcely knew what to say. He had no doubt that she was perfectly right as to the sources of her father’s wealth, and he was sorry that she had been able to arrive at such knowledge. “These are your views,” he said as she paused. “Now let me hear your projects.” “They can be told in very few words,” she replied. “I desire--I think I may say I intend to free myself of the whole burden of the inheritance. Alas! I cannot undo its curse.” “You mean to beggar yourself!” exclaimed her companion in amaze and consternation. “If you call it so. I must leave my mother her yearly income which is given her under the will; but I can do as I please with all the rest, and I shall restore it as far as possible to those from whom he gained it. Of course few of his victims will be traceable; but some may be, so at all events the money shall go back to the poor from whom it was drained.” Framlingham stared at her in silent stupefaction. “You cannot be serious,” he said at last. “I am sorry you look at it in that way. I thought I should have had your sympathy.” “My sympathy!” “Certainly. You are a man of honor.” Framlingham was silent. “Cannot you pity my dishonor?” she said in the same hushed, grave tones.