“Miss Walton was once my father’s ward, yet last night she refused to see me. Can you tell me why?” “The reason is rather obvious,” he asserted crisply. “Will you tell me what it is?” He looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. “Is that all you want of me?” he demanded. “Yes.” “Well, then, Miss Walton refused to see you because she despises you.” I felt my cheeks burn, but I gripped the arm of my chair and waited till I could speak coolly; then I asked, “For what?” “You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss Walton’s fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?” he exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me at once. He did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, “Well?” Having to speak, I asked, “You are sure of what you say?” “Sure!” he ejaculated. “Why, it’s been known to every one for years, and I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for Miss Walton’s interest in what property your father couldn’t take with him!” “If you are a trustee of Miss Walton,” I said, growing cool in my agony of shame, “can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?” That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern. “How much did my father—How much did Miss Walton lose?” I inquired. “One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six thousand.” “Was that amount net?” “Yes.” “Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four thousand dollars?” “Yes.” “Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” I added, rising. “I am only sorry, after your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am grateful for both.” In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held out his. “Mr. Maitland,” he rejoined, “I’m a pretty good judge of men, and I don’t believe you have done wrong knowingly.” “I never dreamed it,” I almost sobbed, shaking his hand. “It’s pretty rough,” he said. “I hope you won’t show the white feather by doing anything desperate?” I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought occurred to me, and, turning, I asked, “What has the legal rate of interest been since 1879?” For reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and I heard the lock click in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his own, and commanded, “Come here and sit down,” in such a peremptory tone that I obeyed. “Why did you ask that question?” he catechised. “That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton.” “What for?” “To attempt restitution.” “I hope you know what you’re talking about?” “I’m still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly enough.”