IX

It was nearly three o’clock before the last guest left. The flowers in

the deserted rooms had drooped and faded; even the lights seemed to

have dimmed. The house wore an air of melancholy. Fanny and Guy came

from the dining-room, where they had eaten a second supper.

“I wonder where Aunt and Uncle are?” she said. “Doesn’t it seem

ghostly?” She yawned, covering her cheeks with both hands. “Ugh! I

guess they’re in the library.”

Helen Briggs was seated in one of the big easy-chairs, her head thrown

back and her eyes closed. Her husband sat beside her, looking down at

her face.

“Flirting, as usual!” said Fanny. Then she added: “Well, wasn’t it

grand?”

“Better go to bed,” said Briggs, sleepily.

Helen half-opened her eyes. “I’m glad you had a good time, dear.”

“Everybody seemed pleased,” said Guy, with a glance at Douglas. He

liked to look at things from the professional point of view.

“Fanny, do go to bed,” Helen insisted.

“All right,” Fanny assented, meekly. She kissed Helen; then she kissed

her uncle. She approached Guy Fullerton on tiptoe and held her hand

high in the air. “Good-night, sir,” she said, softly.

A half-hour later the house was in darkness, save for a light in

the library, where Douglas Briggs sat writing. After an evening of

excitement he never could rest, and he found that some quiet work

soothed his nerves. He was one of those men who seemed to thrive with

very little rest; he had often worked all night, not even lying down,

without showing in his face the next day a trace of the vigil.

Helen had gone to her room, but not to sleep. She changed her ball

dress for a loose gown, and letting her hair fall over her shoulders,

she sat for a long time thinking. Should she tell Douglas? A disclosure

might lead to serious consequences. It would not only break the

business relations between Douglas and West, but it would also involve

her husband in a bitter personal quarrel. For the present she resolved

to keep her secret. As for the charge West had made against Douglas,

that was merely another of the calumnies circulated about him since

he had begun to be successful in Washington. Why was it that one man

could not prosper without exciting the hatred and the envy of so many

other men? Douglas, she felt sure, had never done anything to injure

anyone. His success had been won by his own abilities and industry.

He had worked harder than any other man in Washington. She knew that

herself, and she had often heard it remarked by others. She recalled

all the unselfish work he had done in Congress, the bills he had

toiled for with no purpose beyond that of doing good. Everything he

undertook seemed to succeed. Helen had never thought much about the

way in which he had made his money. It had come to him along with his

successes. She knew that he had lately had good fortune in some land

speculations near Washington; but that was perfectly legitimate, and

it was merely another evidence of his shrewdness. There were plenty of

Congressmen in Washington who remained poor simply because they had not

her husband’s business resources and enterprise. When finally she went

to bed, however, she had a vague sense of discomfort that could not be

attributed to the agitation caused by her interview with Franklin West.

She did not like even the thought of questioning her husband about his

ways of making money. She had never doubted him before. Why should she

doubt him now?

The next day Helen rose at noon with a splitting headache. She rang the

bell, and when the maid appeared, bearing breakfast on a tray, Fanny

came, too. Fanny’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.

“What do you suppose I’ve been doing? I’ve been taking breakfast

down at the hotel with dad. Then I made him go out with me and buy

me a lot of things. So I’ve had a profitable morning. Half a dozen

lace handkerchiefs, a silk scarf and a _beautiful_ tailor-made

coat. It’s going to be a dream. I went to the place you like so

much--Broadhurst’s. I wish you could have heard what they said about my

figure. And when I got back everybody was asleep except Uncle Doug. I

shouldn’t wonder if he sat up all night, though he declared he didn’t.

Here, I’ll fix that tray, Mary. You go down. Let me pour the tea,

Auntie. There are two black lines around your eyes. They make you look

so interesting! I guess you’re kind of tired.”

“Yes, I am,” Helen acknowledged.

“All right, drink this and you’ll feel better. Why don’t you stay in

bed?”

“I mustn’t. I promised that I’d take Mrs. Burrell for a drive this

afternoon. I told one of the girls.”

“More missionary work, I suppose. Auntie, if you don’t stop driving

round with old frumps like that, I won’t recognize you on the street.

Well, I guess I’ll go for a bicycle ride with Guy. He’s been promising

to take me out to Chevy Chase for a long time. Don’t you think it would

be proper?”

“Can’t you get someone to go with you?” Helen asked, sipping her tea

and wondering why she could not shake off, even for a moment, the

thought of Franklin West’s remarks the night before.

“I suppose I could get Mrs. Simpson. She’s always glad to have someone

to ride with her.”

“Do that, then,” said Helen.

Fanny sighed. “What an awful thing to have to be so proper in this

world!”

When Helen had dressed she went up to the nursery, where she found

Dorothy and Jack eating dinner. They seemed to be always eating. They

jumped from their seats and clung around her. They wore their heavy

street clothes and their thick boots.

“I was going to take them out before dinner,” Miss Munroe explained,

“but it seemed damp. So I thought I’d wait till the afternoon.”

“Are you going out, mamma?” Jack asked, clutching at Helen’s dress.

“Yes, by-and-by,” Helen replied, patiently.

Dorothy immediately became plaintive. “Oh, can’t we go with you?”

“Not to-day, dear. I’m going to take Mrs. Burrell for a drive.”

“Oh, shoot Mrs. Burrell!” Dorothy cried.

“Dorothy!” said Miss Munroe, reproachfully. Miss Munroe often wondered

where the children learned their naughty words. They seemed to absorb

them from the air. Sometimes she was afraid their parents would think

they had learned them from her.

“Papa came up before he went out,” said Jack. “He says he’s going to

buy me a sword.”

“Papa is always buying things for Jack!” Dorothy, with a little

encouragement, would soon have burst into tears. Helen saw that the

child was nervous from her morning in the house.

“Take them out as soon as they have finished eating,” she said to Miss

Munroe.

As Helen descended the stairs she met Fanny and Guy just about to start

out on their wheels. “I’ve telephoned Mrs. Simpson, and she’s going.

She wants us to lunch with her. You don’t mind, do you, dear?” Fanny

asked, solicitously, eager to seem important. “If you do, I’ll stay.”

Helen shook her head. “No, your uncle won’t be here, and I’ll lunch

late. So go and have a good time.”

On the table of the library Helen found a pile of New York and

Washington morning papers. She glanced at them to see what they had to

say about the ball. Some of the New York papers made brief reference to

it; one, the most sensational, published a long account. The Washington

papers gave it considerable space. Just as she was turning a page of

the New York _Chronicle_, Helen caught her husband’s name in one

of the editorial columns. She turned back and read the paragraph:

“Last night in Washington Congressman Douglas Briggs, of New York,

gave a ball to celebrate the opening of his new house. It is said that

the house alone cost twenty-five thousand dollars. It is furnished in

a style that only a rich man could afford. Six years ago Congressman

Briggs went to Washington without a dollar, to devote himself to

political affairs, practically abandoning his growing law-practice. He

has apparently found politics profitable. Funny world!”

Helen read the paragraph rapidly; then she read it more slowly. On

finishing, she sat motionless for a few moments. Finally, she placed

the paper carefully on the top of the pile. She rose and walked to the

window. She heard Miss Munroe come downstairs with the children. She

had an impulse to go out into the hall and bid them good-bye, but she

checked it; she wished to speak to no one for a few moments.

She went back to the table and read the paragraph again. Then she

placed the paper in the centre of the pile. She would not allow herself

to think why she did that. She heard a servant pass through the hall,

and she called that she would have luncheon served in an hour. During

the interval she busied herself feverishly, but she could not keep

from thinking about that paragraph. Of course, Douglas would see it.

Perhaps he had seen it already. She remembered now that Guy usually

clipped from the papers all references to her husband. He had left the

papers on the table to look them over on his return with Fanny. The

clippings he pasted in the big black scrapbooks that Douglas kept on

one of the lower shelves, under his law-books. She was tempted to look

through these scrapbooks now to see if they contained any references

like the one she had just read. But she felt ashamed.

After luncheon Helen drove to The Shoreham, where the Burrells had

lived since coming to Washington. Carrie Cora was the first to receive

her. “I’ve had the hardest work keeping ma at home,” she said. “I

didn’t want to let her know I knew you were coming. That would have

spoiled everything. It’s just lovely of you to come! Gladys and Emeline

have gone to the Philharmonic concert, and pa’s up to the House.”

Mrs. Burrell presently made a vociferous entrance. She was one of those

women who do everything noisily. “Well, if this isn’t good of you, to

come just after that party of yours! I should think you’d be all beat

out.”

“I’ve come to take you for a drive,” Helen explained.

Mrs. Burrell slapped her dress with both hands. It was a shimmering

brown silk of fashionable cut, that looked somehow as if it did not

belong to her.

“I don’t believe I’m fit,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you are, ma,” Carrie Cora urged. “Please go.”

“We’ll go out into the country somewhere,” said Helen.

“So it don’t make any difference what you wear,” Carrie Cora chimed in.

Mrs. Burrell looked relieved. “I just hate to keep changing. It seems

to me we do nothing here in Washington but dress, dress. I get so sick

of it! That’s the worst of living in these hotels. You never feel at

home.”

After starting with the old lady, Helen Briggs hesitated to broach the

subject of Carrie Cora’s love affair. A remark she made soon after they

had settled down into conversation unexpectedly relieved her of the

necessity.

“I hope Carrie Cora doesn’t mind being left alone in the apartment,”

she said.

“Oh, Lor’, no,” Mrs. Burrell replied. “I’ve never seen anyone like

her. She just loves to be alone. She’s always been queer about that,

and lately she’s been queerer than ever. She don’t seem to take an

interest in anything. Now, last night, she’d never have gone with us

but for you. She hates parties; but she thinks everything of you.” Mrs.

Burrell drew nearer Helen. “She’s in love,” she whispered.

Helen smiled. “There isn’t any great harm in that.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Mrs. Burrell agreed, “if the young man belonged to

her station in life. But he don’t. He ain’t got a cent to his name.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But isn’t there anything else against

him?--besides his being poor, I mean.”

“Oh, I guess he’s _good_ enough,” Mrs. Burrell acknowledged,

grudgingly. “I never heard anything against him. His name is Rufus

James,” she added, as if this fact in some way explained his condition.

“He’s here in Washington now.” Her lips tightened as she looked at

Helen with an expression that said: “Think of that!”

As Helen said nothing, Mrs. Burrell went on: “Of course, he come just

because she was here.”

“He must be very fond of her,” Helen ventured to remark. “But I don’t

wonder; Carrie Cora is a very fine girl.”

“She _is_ a fine girl. I declare to goodness I wish she wouldn’t

keep her light under a bushel. She does make me so mad! She could have

gone to the best teachers down to Boston or anywhere. Father even

offered to send her to Europe. She said she’d rather stay at home and

do housework. She’s a splendid housekeeper. I sometimes think that’s

what Rufus James wants to marry her for.”

“Well, that’s a great compliment to Carrie Cora,” Helen laughed. “It

seems to me a pretty good reason for marrying, too.”

“And have her go off and live in some tumble-down place in Auburn!”

Mrs. Burrell exclaimed, in horror.

“But perhaps that’s the only way she could be happy,” Helen insisted,

gently. “Carrie Cora’s naturally domestic. I can see that.”

Mrs. Burrell sighed. “And I always wanted to make something of her! I’m

sure her father’s spent money enough.”

“But if she makes a good wife and mother--that will be enough, won’t

it? Besides, is Rufus James so very poor?”

“I don’t believe he makes more than a thousand dollars a year.”

“That’s just what Douglas was earning when we became engaged,” said

Helen.

“What?” Mrs. Burrell looked startled. “Well, I declare!” she said.

“Douglas was teaching school then at Waverly, where we lived. They paid

him only six hundred a year; and he made the rest by writing for the

newspapers. At the same time he studied law.”

“Well, he _was_ smart. I don’t wonder he’s so successful.”

“We had to wait three years before we could marry. That seemed a long

time.”

Mrs. Burrell sighed. “It must have been hard.”

Helen at once pressed the point. “How long has Carrie Cora been

waiting?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re not _engaged_,” Mrs. Burrell replied, reproachfully,

as if this fact threw Carrie Cora’s case out of the discussion.

“But how long have they been fond of each other?”

“Well, as soon as I found it out I did my best to stop it,” said Mrs.

Burrell, as if flaunting a generous act. “I just told him he wasn’t to

come to the house any more. That was more’n two years ago.”

“So they haven’t seen anything of each other since?”

“Oh, yes, they have. Indeed they have. That girl’s just as obstinate.

She’s her father all over. I’ve said that to my husband a thousand

times since this trouble come on us. It’s spoiled our Winter here. That

girl’s a damper on everything. I kind of thought when she come down

here she’d get over it. But, as I was saying, she used to meet him

’round places in Auburn, mostly at Emily Farnsworth’s. Emily always was

a great friend of Carrie Cora’s. I used to like Emily real well. Now we

don’t speak.” Mrs. Burrell pressed her lips together again, and tears

stood in her eyes.

“Those things are always unfortunate,” said Helen, sympathetically.

Mrs. Burrell clutched her by the arm. “There he is now!” she said,

“over there. See that slim young man with the derby hat?”

“Who?” Helen asked, mystified.

“Why, Rufus James himself.”

The young man saw that he was observed, and looked at the two women

with surprise in his face. Then his face darkened and he flushed and

turned his head quickly away.

“He reco’nized me,” Mrs. Burrell exclaimed. “You could see that plain

enough. And he never had the politeness to lift his hat.”

“Can you blame him?” Helen asked, with a faint smile.

It was Mrs. Burrell who flushed now.

“He’s good-looking, isn’t he?” Helen went on. She was secretly pleased

by the young man’s show of spirit.

Mrs. Burrell remained silent for several minutes. Helen waited. “Oh, I

know you think I’m as hard as a rock,” she blurted out at last. “Just

because----”

“Oh, no,” Helen interposed, quickly.

Mrs. Burrell grew humble. “Do you think I ought to have let him come?”

she asked. “To the house, I mean?”

“It’s always a pity when those things have to go on outside the house.”

“So Mr. Dyer said. He’s our minister. He talked to me just as you’ve

been talking. But I suppose I’m obstinate myself. Still, I’ve always

tried to do right by that girl.”

“I’m sure you have.”

They fell into silence again. They had reached the country, and soft

breezes blew across their faces, bearing the scent of apple blossoms.

“You ain’t said much,” Mrs. Burrell began, “but I can just _feel_

what you think. You think I ain’t done right. Oh, don’t! I know just

how you feel. You think I’ve been throwing that girl in temptation’s

way. But I guess I know Carrie Cora better’n anyone else. And Rufus

James is an honorable young man. He’s always had a good reputation in

Auburn. Oh, dear!”

The tears ran down her withered cheeks. “I’d like to go home,” she said

to Helen. “I don’t feel a bit well. Perhaps my husband will be home.

I want to have a talk with him.” Helen spoke to the driver and they

turned back toward the city. “I’m an awful fool,” Mrs. Burrell went on.

“And don’t you go and blame yourself for anything I’ve said or done.

I’ve known all along that I wasn’t doin’ right, but it was just that

pride of mine kept me from acknowledgin’ it.” She dried her eyes and

sank back in the seat. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “D’you suppose

Rufus James would come to dinner to-night if I asked him?” she said.

X

Helen Briggs felt uncomfortable on leaving Mrs. Burrell. It was true

that she had not introduced the subject of Carrie Cora’s love affair,

but her conscience troubled her, nevertheless. She did not like

interfering in other people’s business. However, victory had probably

been won for the girl, unless something should change her mother’s

mind. A resentful word, a disagreeable look on Carrie Cora’s part,

might shatter the possibility of a lifetime of happiness. On the other

hand, Helen argued, Mrs. Burrell might have been justified in opposing

her daughter. In spite of her own experience, Helen had grown sceptical

with regard to marriage. Many marriages among her friends had begun

with every promise of happiness and had been either disappointments or

complete failures. So often, she had observed, love seemed to be only

an expression of egotism, that soon betrayed itself in selfishness or

resentment or bitterness.

On reaching home Helen found the house deserted save by the servants.

On the way she had observed the plain and patient Miss Munroe with

the children in the Park. She went into the library to get something

to read, and her eye fell on the black scrapbooks. Without realizing

that she had for hours been resisting the temptation to examine them,

she quickly drew one out from the shelf and placed it on her husband’s

desk. It happened to be the newest, and it was only half-filled with

newspaper clippings. With a nervous impulse she placed it back on

the shelf and took the volume at the opposite end of the row. On the

fly-leaf she read, in her husband’s handwriting: “My first speeches

in Congress.” Most of these had been clipped from the Congressional

reports, and many of them she had read. She turned the pages quickly,

stopping here and there to read a personal paragraph of praise or

criticism. One paragraph contained this statement:

“It is a satisfaction to see that in Douglas Briggs New York has at

last sent a man to Congress who gives promise of taking a conspicuous

position before the country. Briggs is impulsive, even hot-headed, and

consequently injudicious, and his faults would be serious in a man

of greater age and experience. But he has decided force of character,

invincible determination, remarkable insight into public affairs and

an inexhaustible capacity for work. He is sure to cut a great figure

if his party stands by him. His danger lies in the chance of his

becoming too big a man to be held in check by the party management. He

has already overridden several party measures and taken leadership in

pushing reforms that are distinctly opposed to the party’s policy.”

Helen had an impulse to kiss the paper on which these words were

printed. But she checked it and turned the leaves more quickly, letting

her eye run down each column. For more than an hour she pored over

the volumes. When she had glanced over the first three she noticed

a change in the tone of the comments. They began to be sarcastic;

they pointed out several inconsistencies in her husband’s course. One

paper published in parallel columns quotations from his speeches,

contradicting each other. Then followed open charges of corruption

against him in connection with a railroad bill then under consideration

in Congress. As she read, Helen grew faint. How did it happen that she

had neither seen nor heard of this article? Why hadn’t Douglas spoken

of it to her? Why had he not come out with a public denial, or sued the

paper for libel? Then she said to herself that she was foolish to ask

these questions. Attacks of this kind were made every day on public

men; the higher their position the more bitter the enemies they made.

She heard a sound at the front door, and she started. It was probably

Douglas returning early from the House. She was tempted to put the book

quickly back in its place; but she sat without moving, waiting for him

to come in. He walked up the stairs, however. She rose with a sigh of

relief and, closing the book, left it on the table. She made a quiet

resolve that she would never tell him of the thoughts that had passed

through her mind. She would try never to think of them again. She was

ashamed of having thought of them at all.

Douglas Briggs stopped on the upper landing and called, “Helen!” Then

he looked down. “Oh, there you are,” he said. He descended quickly,

and she met him in the hall. “Rested?” he said, taking her hand and

pressing it against his cheek.

“Yes, dear.” Then she suddenly put both her hands on his head

and kissed him twice. “I’m glad you came back early,” she said.

“Everybody’s out, and I’ve been feeling lonely.”

She returned to the library, and he followed. “I’ve been looking over

your scrapbooks,” she said.

“Couldn’t you find anything more interesting?” He dropped into a seat

near the table and ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ve been having

a great fight to-day. Aspinwall’s new tariff schedule. If I’d known I

was going to make a speech I’d have asked you to come. Have you seen

the notices of our ball last night in the papers?”

Helen nodded.

“The _Star_ gave us a great send-off. They treated me as if I were

a millionaire.” Douglas Briggs sighed. “I wish I were.”

“That reminds me, Douglas,” said Helen. “I want to ask you something.”

She was astonished at her own boldness. She felt as if she were

speaking at the bidding of someone else. She thought of her resolution,

but she felt powerless to keep it.

Briggs looked up. “Well?” Helen did not answer at once, and he added:

“What is it?”

“Since last night,” she began, slowly, seeming to hear her voice in

another part of the room, “I’ve been wondering if we weren’t living

very extravagantly.”

He looked at her in surprise. Then the expression in his face softened.

“I shouldn’t worry about that, dear, if I were you. There’s no need of

it.”

“Douglas!” she said.

“Eh?” He observed her sharply.

“How much do you make in a year?”

Briggs smiled and frowned at the same moment. “What?” he said, with

astonishment, “how much do I make?”

“Yes. What’s your income? What was it last year? Please tell me. I have

a reason for asking.”

Briggs looked vaguely around the room. “’Pon my word, I don’t believe I

know myself.”

“Can’t you estimate?”

“I suppose I could,” Briggs replied, with a note of irritation in his

voice. “But what do you want to know for?”

“I think I ought to know.”

“Don’t you have everything you want?” he asked, inconsequently.

“Yes.”

“Have I stinted you in anything?”

“No, Douglas, never. You’ve been perfect. No woman ever had a more

generous husband.”

Briggs thrust his hands into his pockets and burlesqued an attitude

of extreme self-satisfaction. “There! Then there’s nothing more to be

said, since I’m such a paragon.”

“But I want to know, really,” Helen insisted. For the first time she

had known him she suspected that he was not quite sincere. And yet she

could not believe that he was capable of acting with her--with anyone.

Briggs turned quickly. “I told you I didn’t know myself.”

“But I’m serious about this,” Helen went on. “Now, your salary is five

thousand, isn’t it?”

“M’m--h’m!”

“And the property Aunt Lena left me--how much does that bring in?”

Briggs lifted his shoulders. “Last year it brought in only two

thousand. We might have got more out of it----”

“Please don’t reproach me about that. You know how much I want to keep

it safe for the children!”

“Well, if that isn’t just like a woman!” Briggs retorted, laughing.

“When she might have more for the children!”

“Or nothing at all,” Helen remarked, quietly.

Briggs drew his hands from his pockets and sat erect. “Helen,” he said,

leaning toward his wife, “if you weren’t a woman you’d be a parson,

like your father and your two younger brothers. It’s in your blood.”

Helen ignored the remark. “That makes seven thousand, doesn’t it?”

“But I never touch _that_ money. I add it to the principal.”

“So we have only five thousand to live on!” Helen exclaimed, in a

startled voice.

Her husband smiled with patient superiority. “No, no! Now you talk as

if you were a millionaire’s daughter. How much did your father live on,

I’d like to know?”

“Eighteen hundred a year.”

“Well, I dare say he was just as happy on that as we are on----” He

stopped, looking at her with an expression in his eyes that she had

never seen there before.

“On what?” she asked, quietly.

“On what we spend,” he replied.

“The ball we gave last night must have cost at least eighteen hundred,”

Helen persisted.

“Well, I guess we’re good for it,” Briggs replied, complacently.

Helen lost control of herself. “That’s what I can’t understand,” she

cried, excitedly. “How are we good for it?”

Douglas Briggs rose and walked slowly toward his wife. He laid his hand

gently on her shoulder. “My dear child, that’s not a nice way to speak

to your husband!”

“Please don’t call me your dear child again, Douglas. Now, I have a

reason for asking these questions, and I want you to give me direct

answers.”

Briggs let his hand drop. Helen rose and walked to the edge of the desk.

“I think you must be ill, dear,” he said, looking at her solicitously.

She tried to keep the tears from her voice. “I shall be, unless you

tell me the truth.”

Douglas Briggs kept his eyes on her for a long time. She turned from

him. “Do you mean that you want to know whether I am an honest man or

not?” he asked, in a low voice.

“I have never questioned your honesty, Douglas.”

He hesitated. “I will tell you the truth,” he said, as if he had just

passed through a struggle. “Last year I must have spent nearly thirty

thousand dollars. It was all I had. At the end of the year I was five

thousand dollars in debt. That has since been paid.”

“How did you make that money?” she asked, facing him.

Briggs looked down at the table. His eyes wandered over his papers and

over the black scrapbook. “That’s a cruel question for a wife to ask

her husband,” he remarked at last.

“Not when she knows he will be able to answer it,” Helen said, firmly.

“Well, I--I made it mostly through my law practice.”

Helen began to breathe quickly. “But I heard you say the other day

that since you came to Washington you had been forced to give up your

practice.”

“So I have--very largely, almost wholly, in fact,” he replied, growing

impatient again. “But there are some interests that I have to look out

for here.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, there’s the--there are some railroad interests.”

“Some railroad interests!” Helen repeated, blankly.

“Yes.”

“The railroad that Mr. West is concerned in, do you mean?”

“Why, yes. You know that perfectly well. I’ve been associated with that

railroad for years, in one way or another.”

“That’s the road that receives so much favor from the Government, isn’t

it?”

“Oh, that’s mere gossip. There’s no such thing.”

Helen looked straight into her husband’s face. Her figure had become

rigid. “What do you do for the railroad, Douglas?”

His eyes flashed; his nostrils turned white. “You’re going too far,

Helen,” he cried.

She did not stir. “I have a right to ask these questions,” she

continued, keeping her voice low. “Oh, I know you consider that I can’t

understand these things. You acknowledge that you receive thousands of

dollars a year from that railroad--five times as much as your salary.”

“I made no such acknowledgment,” Briggs replied, angrily.

“But it’s true; you know it’s true, Douglas. You can’t deny it.”

“I won’t take the trouble to deny it, since you evidently want to

believe it.”

“And you know you don’t give the road an hour a day of your time.”

His lips curled. “My dear girl, lawyers aren’t paid by the hour, like

your seamstresses.”

“And the railroad’s regular attorney is Mr. West,” Helen went on. “You

know that.”

“Well, West does all the dirty work,” he said, with a laugh.

“And what do you do, Douglas?” She hesitated. “Answer me, Douglas--what

do you do?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, in a low voice. He raised his hand. “I warn

you that you are interfering with matters that don’t concern you, that

you can’t even comprehend. You are doing it at your peril.”

“What do you do for that company?” she repeated.

He extended both hands in a gesture of deprecation. “I simply look

after its interests in the House. There’s the truth, now. It’s

perfectly legitimate. There are plenty of men who do the same thing for

other corporations--men in big positions.”

Her face grew pale and she swayed forward slightly. Then she stood

erect and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Douglas!” she said.