“Did he make a will?” asked Mary quickly.

“No.  A will was open to serious objections.  Even supposing your evidence—­which, of course, I wanted in case of need—­had been satisfactory, a fight with the Radbolts would have been unpleasant.  Worse than that—­as long as I lived I should have been blackmailed by Sergeant Hooper, who knew Mr. Saffron’s condition, though he didn’t know about the money here.  Even before you found out about my poor old friend, I had decided against a will—­though, perhaps, I might have squared the Radbolts by just taking this little place—­and its contents—­and letting them take the rest.  That too became impossible after your discovery.  There remained then, the money in the Tower.  I could make quite sure of that, wait for his death, and then enjoy it.  And, upon my word, why shouldn’t I?  He’d have been much gratified by my going to Morocco; and he’d certainly much sooner that I had the money—­if it couldn’t go to Morocco—­than that the Radbolts should get it.  That was the way the question presented itself to me; and I’m a poor man, with no obvious career before me.  The right of conquest appealed to me strongly, Doctor Mary.”

“I can see that you may have been greatly tempted,” said Mary in a grave and troubled voice.  “And the circumstances did enable you to make excuses for what you thought of doing.”

“Excuses?  You won’t even go so far as to call it a doubtful case?  One that a casuist could argue either way?” Beaumaroy was smiling again now.

“Even if I did, men of—­”

“Yes, Doctor Mary—­of sensitive honor!”

“Decide doubtful cases against themselves in money matters.”

“Oh, I say, is that doctrine current in business circles?  I’ve been in business myself, and I doubt it.”

“They do—­men of real honor,” Mary persisted.

“So that’s how great fortunes are made?  That’s how individuals—­to say nothing of nations—­rise to wealth and power!  And I never knew it,” Beaumaroy reflected in a gentle voice.  His eye caught Mary’s, and she gave a little laugh.  “By deciding doubtful cases against themselves!  Dear me, yes!”

“I didn’t say they rose to greatness and power.”

“Then the people who do rise to greatness and power—­and the nations—­don’t they go by right of conquest, Doctor Mary?  Don’t they decide cases in their own favor?”

“Did you really mean to—­to take the money?”

“I’ll tell you as near as I can.  I meant to do my best for my old man.  I meant him to live as long as he could, and to live free, unpersecuted, as happy as he could be made.  I meant that, because I loved him, and he loved me.  Well, I’ve lost him; I’m alone in the world.”  The last words were no appeal to Mary; for the moment he seemed to have forgotten her; he was speaking out of his own heart to himself.  Yet the words thereby touched her to a livelier pity; you are very lonely when there is nobody to whom you have affection’s right to complain of loneliness.