Robert Belcher knew that the woman before him was fearless and incorruptible.  He knew that she despised him—­that bullying and brow-beating would have no influence with her, that his ready badinage would not avail, and that coaxing and soft words would be equally useless.  In her presence, he was shorn of all his weapons; and he never felt so defenseless and ill at ease in his life.

As Miss Butterworth did not seem inclined to begin conversation, Mr. Belcher hem’d and haw’d with affected nonchalance, and said: 

“Ah!—­to—­what am I indebted for this visit.  Miss—­ah—­Butterworth?”

“I’m thinking!” she replied sharply, looking into the fire, and pressing her lips together.

There was nothing to be said to this, so Mr. Belcher looked doggedly at her, and waited.

“I’m thinking of a man, and-he-was-a-man-every-inch-of-him, if there ever was one, and a gentleman too, if-I-know-what-a-gentleman-is, who came to this town ten years ago, from-nobody-knows-where; with a wife that was an angel, if-there-is-any-such-thing-as-an-angel.”

Here Miss Butterworth paused.  She had laid her foundation, and proceeded at her leisure.

“He knew more than any man in Sevenoaks, but he didn’t know how to take care of himself,” she went on.  “He was the most ingenious creature God ever made, I do think, and his name was Paul Benedict.”

Mr. Belcher grew pale and fidgeted in his chair.

“And his name was Paul Benedict.  He invented something, and then he took it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into his mill, and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could.  And then he invented something more, and-that-went-into-the-mill; and then something more, and the patent was used by Mr. Belcher for a song, and the man grew poorer and poorer, while-Mr.-Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time.  And then he invented a gun, and then his little wife died, and what with the expenses of doctors and funerals and such things, and the money it took to get his patent, which-I-begged-him-for-conscience’-sake-to-kee
p-out-of-Robert-Belcher’s-hands, he almost starved with his little boy, and had to go to Robert Belcher for money.”

“And get it,” said Mr. Belcher.

“How much, now?  A hundred little dollars for what was worth a hundred thousand, unless-everybody-lies.  The whole went in a day, and then he went crazy.”

“Well, you know I sent him to the asylum,” responded Mr. Belcher.

“I know you did—­yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him well enough to sign a paper, which the doctor never would let him sign, and which wouldn’t have been worth a straw if he had signed it.  The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man-to-sign-a-paper!”

“Well, but I wanted some security for the money I had advanced,” said Mr. Belcher.

“No; you wanted legal possession of a property which would have made him rich; that’s what it was, and you didn’t get it, and you never will get it.  He can’t be cured, and he’s been sent back, and is up at Tom Buffum’s now, and I’ve seen him to-day.”