He limped across the floor, to a recess on one side of the chimney,
where a square vault with an iron door had been built into the wall.
Leaning on his cane, he took from his pocket a bunch of keys, fitted
one into the lock, and pushing the bolt, the door slid back into a
groove, instead of opening on hinges. He lifted a black tin box from
the depths of the vault, carried it to the table, sat down, and
opened it. Near the top, were numerous papers tied into packages
with red tape, and two large envelopes carefully sealed with dark-
green wax. In removing the bundles, to find something beneath them,
these envelopes were laid on the table; and as one was either
accidentally or intentionally turned, Beryl saw the endorsement
written in bold black letters, and heavily underscored in red ink:
"Last Will and Testament of Robert Luke Darrington." Untying a small
chamois bag, the owner counted out five twenty-dollar gold pieces,
closed the bag, and replaced it in the box.

"Hold out your hand. Your mother asked fur one hundred dollars. Here
is the exact amount. Henceforth, leave me in peace. I am an old man,
and I advise you to 'let sleeping dogs lie.'"

If he had laid a red-hot iron on her palm, it would scarcely have
been more scorching than the touch of his gold, and only the vision
of a wan and woeful face in that far off cheerless attic room,
restrained her impulse to throw it at his feet.

An almost intolerable humiliation dyed her pale cheeks a deep
purplish crimson, and she proudly drew herself to her utmost height.

"Because I cannot now help myself, I accept the money--not as a