"That's all right, Stephen; that's all right," he said. "Don't
excite yourself. Just get what you're to say straight in your
mind and stick to it. Remember," he went on, as though coaching
a child in a task already learned, "there never was a written
agreement.

"No!" muttered Hallowell. "Never was!"

"Repeat this to yourself," commanded the Judge. "The
understanding between you and your brother-in-law was that if
you placed his patent on the market, for the first five years
you would share the profits equally. After the five years, all
rights in the patent became yours. It was unfortunate,"
commented the Judge dryly, "that your brother-in-law and your
sister died before the five years were up, especially as the
patent did not begin to make money until after five years.
Remember -- until after five years."

"Until after five years," echoed Mr. Hallowell. "It was over six
years," he went on excitedly, "before it made a cent. And, then,
it was my money -- and anything I give my niece is charity.
She's not entitled -- "

Garrett appeared at the door. "Miss Coates," he announced, "and
Mr. Winthrop." Judge Gaylor raised a hand for silence, and as
Mr. Hallowell sank back in his chair, Helen Coates, the only
child of Catherine Coates, his sister, and the young District
Attorney of New York came into the library. Miss Coates was a
woman of between twenty-five and thirty, capable, and self-