"Mine! Mine! Why"--and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed
relievedly--"I refuse absolutely to accept it!"

"In that case it goes--to charities."

A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust
herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of
wheels in the quiet street--a toot of a taxi horn.

"Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can
wait. The night is mild"--Truedale spoke gently--"and you and I are
rich."

Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the
path set for her by her old friend's words.

"Conning would not know!" she grasped and held to that; "he would be
able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her
knowledge could affect no one but herself! If"--and here Lynda breathed
faster--"if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life
that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness
of bringing his own to him would be hers!--hers!"

Again the opposite side of the picture held her. "But suppose he did
_not_ want her--in that way? Then she, his friend--the one who, in all
the world, loved him the best--would profit by it; she would be a
wealthy woman, for her mother's sake or"--the alternative staggered
her--"she could let everything slip, everything and bear the
consequences!"