“It’s too bad the girl will have to teach,” said Mrs. Bassett; “it must be a dog’s life.”

“I think Miss Garrison doesn’t look at it that way,” Harwood intervened.  “She thinks she’s in the world to do something for somebody; she’s a very interesting, a very charming young woman.”

“Well, I haven’t seen her in five years; she was only a young girl that summer at the lake.  How soon will Aunt Sally be back?  I do hope she’s coming to Waupegan.  If I’d known she was going to Wellesley, we could have waited for her in New York, and Marian and I could have gone with them to see Sylvia graduated.  I always wanted to visit the college.”

“It was better for you to come home, Hallie,” said Mr. Bassett.  “You are not quite up to sight-seeing yet.  And now,” he added, “Dan and I have some business on hand for an hour or so, and I’m going to send you and Marian for an automobile ride before dinner.  You must quit the moment you are tired.  Wish we could all go, but I haven’t seen Dan much lately, and as I’m going home with you to-morrow we shan’t have another chance.”

When his wife and daughter had been dispatched in the motor Bassett suggested that they go to a private room he had engaged in the hotel, first giving orders at the office that he was not to be disturbed.  He did not, however, escape at once from men who had been lying in wait for him in the lobby and corridors, but he made short work of them.

“I want to thresh out some things with you to-day, and I’ll be as brief as possible,” said Bassett when he and Harwood were alone.  “You got matters fixed satisfactorily at Montgomery—­no trouble about your appointment?”

“None; Mrs. Owen had arranged all that.”

“You mentioned to her, did you, my offer to help?”

“Oh, yes!  But she had already arranged with Akins, the banker, about the administrator’s bond, and we went at once to business.”

“That’s all right; only I wanted to be sure Mrs. Owen understood I had offered to help you.  She’s very kind to my wife and children; Mrs. Bassett has been almost like a daughter to her, you know.  There’s really some property to administer, is there?”

“Very little, sir.  The Professor had been obliged to drop part of his life insurance and there was only two thousand in force when he died.  The house he lived in may bring another two.  There are some publishers’ contracts that seem to have no value.  And the old gentleman had invested what was a large sum for him in White River Canneries.”

Bassett frowned and he asked quickly:—­

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“As much as that?”

Bassett’s connection with White River Canneries was an incident of the politician’s career to which Harwood had never been wholly reconciled.  Nor was he pleasantly impressed by Bassett’s next remark, which, in view of Mrs. Bassett’s natural expectations,—­and these Dan had frequently heard mentioned at the capital,—­partook of the nature of a leading question.  “That’s unfortunate.  But I suppose Mrs. Owen, by reason of her friendship for the grandfather, won’t let the girl suffer.”