“I was coming to see you, anyway,” Mr. Merrill said.

“I did you a wrong—­though as God judges me, I did not think of it at the time.  It was not until Alexander Duncan spoke to me last week that I thought of it at all.”

“Yes,” said Wetherell.

“You see,” continued Mr. Merrill wiping his brow, for he found the matter even more difficult than he had imagined, “it was not until Duncan told me how you had acted in his library that I guessed the truth—­that I remembered myself how you had acted.  I knew that you were not mixed up in politics, but I also knew that you were an intimate friend of Jethro’s, and I thought that you had been let into the secret of the woodchuck session.  I don’t defend the game of politics as it is played, Mr. Wetherell, but all of us who are friends of Jethro’s are generally willing to lend a hand in any little manoeuvre that is going on, and have a practical joke when we can.  It was not until I saw you sitting there beside Duncan that the idea occurred to me.  It didn’t make a great deal of difference whether Duncan or Lovejoy got to the House or not, provided they didn’t learn of the matter too early, because some of their men had been bought off that day.  It suited Jethro’s sense of humor to play the game that way—­and it was very effective.  When I saw you there beside Duncan I remembered that he had spoken about the Guardian letters, and the notion occurred to me to get him to show you his library.  I have explained to him that you were innocent.  I—­I hope you haven’t been worrying.”

William Wetherell sat very still for a while, gazing out of the window, but a new look had come into his eyes.

“Jethro Bass did not know that you—­that you had used me?” he asked at length.

“No,” replied Mr. Merrill thickly, “no.  He didn’t know a thing about it—­he doesn’t know it now, I believe.”

A smile came upon Wetherell’s face, but Mr. Merrill could not look at it.

“You have made me very happy,” said the storekeeper, tremulously.  “I—­I have no right to be proud—­I have taken his money—­he has supported my daughter and myself all these years.  But he had never asked me to—­to do anything, and I liked to think that he never would.”

Mr. Merrill could not speak.  The tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“I want you to promise me, Mr. Merril!” he went on presently, “I want you to promise me that you will never speak to Jethro, of this, or to my daughter, Cynthia.”

Mr. Merrill merely nodded his head in assent.  Still he could not speak.

“They might think it was this that caused my death.  It was not.  I know very well that I am worn out, and that I should have gone soon in any case.  And I must leave Cynthia to him.  He loves her as his own child.”

William Wetherell, his faith in Jethro restored, was facing death as he had never faced life.  Mr. Merrill was greatly affected.