was_ a gentleman," Dan said gently. Was--was? Ted _was_! Ted, who
had been so alive, so "in it" in the jovial sense always--was! The word
choked poor Dan, but he stumbled on, and told of the poor fellow's last
charge to him, his last request to his mother.

Sometimes, in his confidential moments, Ted had spoken of this mother
of his. "She is a good woman," he had said; "I suppose she never did,
or said, or thought a wicked thing in her life."

She might be good, but she had now a heart as hard as the nether
millstone. She did not choose to credit the story. She would not do her
dear son's memory such an insult as to believe it. She looked with
suspicion as well as dislike upon the poor friend with the rumpled red
hair, with the fair skin, blurred and mottled, as such fair skins are
wont to be, by his weeping. It was quite possible, she told herself in
her miserable little wisdom, that he had made up the tale for his own
ends. The hundred pounds was for himself, or at least he would share
it. She would not believe; and presently she would hear no more.

"I must now really ask you to leave me alone," she said. "Your good
feeling will show you that I have enough to bear."

"And you refuse to do this last thing poor Ted asked of you?" Dan said
to her.

"I have no proof that he asked it," she answered.

And with that insult ringing in his ears, Dan went.

He pulled the door to upon him with a muttered oath on his lips; but he
was not so enraged as another man would have been in his place. The
"old girl" wasn't behaving well; but in Dan's experience, so many
people did not behave well; and as it happened, the thing could be put
right. If it had been yesterday, how helpless he would have been in the
emergency! But old Playford's death had come just in the nick of time.
As for himself and his chance--his last chance--well! He looked across
at that other door behind which Ted lay. Ted and he had stuck together
through ill report and good, had helped each other out of many a
scrape, had had such good times!

Dan looked for a moment at the closed door, then stepped across the
yard of matting and opened it.

Many a time he had run in without waiting for admission to his friend's
lodgings, had pushed open the door to call a word to the young doctor,
already gone to bed or not yet got up, perhaps. So, once more he opened
the door far enough to admit his red head, and looked in. Ted was dead,
he knew; but it takes time to re