"It's all right," he assured them. "Don't you worry."

"But," protested Tom Blake, "we've got so much money, and they--Isn't
there some way that you can fix it, doctor? You know how to do these
things; and we're so helpless."

"And," elaborated Jack Schuyler, "they'd never suspect you, you know."

"I tell you it's all fixed," returned the doctor, with testiness that
from him was cordiality rampant. "Jimmy Blair left a very comfortable
estate, in trust. They'll have all they want as long as they live."

He didn't tell them--that is, not then, though later he did--that one of
the last acts of John Stuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart Blake had
been to walk solemnly, side by side, across the street and tell the widow
of Jimmy Blair, that, in accordance with the ante-mortem desires of her
late husband, they had devoted a certain portion of the fortune that he
had left to the establishment of a trust fund that would yield her an
annual income of $12,000. He didn't tell them, then. Later he did. He
couldn't help it. But at that time--

He slapped them both on the back, and sent them from the room. He stood,
on the top step of the flight that led from sidewalk to front door, and
watched them swing, broad-shouldered, supple, erect, down the bright
Avenue.

"Now why in thunder," he asked of himself, slowly, "didn't I ever get
married?" And then, "Shut up, you old fool," he soliloquized. And he
turned, and, re-entering the house, slammed the door behind him.