So it was that when a few days later his lawyer handed Marjorie his check after the signing of the necessary documents, the divorced wife found it difficult to suppress her genuine surprise. “Is there anything wrong, Mrs. Benton?” the lawyer inquired, noticing her peculiar expression. “Well—I—I am a little surprised—at the amount!” She glanced at the paper in her hand again. “I have always been under the impression that Mr. Benton was a very wealthy man.” “There was never a certain sum stipulated, was there?” “Why, no—Mr. Benton agreed to give me three-quarters of all he possessed, but if _this_ amount is in accordance with that promise—then he is worth a great deal less than I ever imagined.” “You know that Mr. Benton speculates in vast sums daily; his fortune is bound to fluctuate. Would you care to send a message to him?” he asked, as he reached for his hat. “No, thank you. This is perfectly—satisfactory,” she replied. But with the memory of that check in mind, and of the need of vast sums for the defense of her son in mind, Marjorie Benton, in making her own departure from The Castle, did not follow her husband’s example and install herself and her son in a fashionable, expensive hotel. Instead, she chose a much smaller one further uptown—a hostelry where exclusiveness superseded the pomp of the hotel home which housed her former husband and her daughter. Marjorie could see that Howard was somewhat questioning at the move she made, though he said nothing. She was in a quandary. She would have liked to explain to Howard that she was not being penurious, not following the conservative bent which had so long been the cause of so much trouble in the Benton family, but she could not. She could not explain to him. He had lost all respect for his father as it was, and she felt she could not be the one to plant the seed of hatred in his heart. Howard, on the other hand, had been deeply hurt when his mother had neglected to mention to him just what was the sum of the settlement upon her. The confidence she failed to place in him gave him the impression of not being trusted. But his pride would not permit him to question her; he feared she might misconstrue his motive, and consider his interest a selfish one. Through all her travail Marjorie Benton had had one other consolation save her son. John Hammond had proven himself the friend he had offered to be on the morning he had told her he was no longer her husband’s, but her own and her son’s representative. Each day during the progress of the suit, he had called her up or seen her, and his gentle courtesy had done much to lighten her burden. Now he was busy with Howard’s affairs, and because of the lawyer’s deep interest and enthusiasm, the mother had laid aside much of her worry for Howard, believing that it was an assured thing that John Hammond would acquit him.