The rest of it was to the effect that the writer, being Mr. Speranza's business adviser, “that is to say, as much or more so than any one else,” had been called in at the time of the accident, had conferred with the injured man, and had learned his last wishes. “He expressed himself coherently concerning his son,” went on the letter, “and it is in regard to that son that I am asking an interview with you. I should have written sooner, but have been engaged with matters pertaining to Mr. Speranza's estate and personal debts. The latter seem to be large--” “I'LL bet you!” observed Captain Zelotes, sententiously, interrupting his wife's reading by pointing to this sentence with a big forefinger. “'And the estate's affairs much tangled,'” went on Olive, reading aloud. “'It seems best that I should see you concerning the boy at once. I don't know whether or not you are aware that he is at school in ----, New York. I am inclined to think that the estate itself will scarcely warrant the expense of his remaining there. Could you make it convenient to come to New York and see me at once? Or, if not, I shall be in Boston on Friday of next week and can you meet me there? It seems almost impossible for me to come to you just now, and, of course, you will understand that I am acting as a sort of temporary executor merely because Mr. Speranza was formerly my friend and not because I have any pecuniary interest in the settlement of his affairs. “'Very truly yours, “'MARCUS W. WEISSMANN.'” “Weissman! Another Portygee!” snorted Captain Lote. “But--but what does it MEAN?” begged Mrs. Snow. “Why--why should he want to see you, Zelotes? And the boy--why--why, that's HER boy. It's Janie's boy he must mean, Zelotes.” Her husband nodded. “Hers and that blasted furriner's,” he muttered. “I suppose so.” “Oh, DON'T speak that way, Zelotes! Don't! He's dead.” Captain Lote's lips tightened. “If he'd died twenty years ago 'twould have been better for all hands,” he growled. “Janie's boy!” repeated Olive slowly. “Why--why, he must be a big boy now. Almost grown up.” Her husband did not speak. He was pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets. “And this man wants to see you about him,” said Olive. Then, after a moment, she added timidly: “Are you goin', Zelotes?” “Goin'? Where?” “To New York? To see this lawyer man?” “I? Not by a jugful! What in blazes should I go to see him for?” “Well--well, he wants you to, you know. He wants to talk with you about the--the boy.” “Humph!” “It's her boy, Zelotes.” “Humph! Young Portygee!” “Don't, Zelotes! Please! . . . I know you can't forgive that--that man. We can't either of us forgive him; but--” The captain stopped in his stride. “Forgive him!” he repeated. “Mother, don't talk like a fool. Didn't he take away the one thing that I was workin' for, that I was plannin' for, that I was LIVIN' for? I--” She interrupted, putting a hand on his sleeve. “Not the only thing, dear,” she said. “You had me, you know.”