epends on the will," said Lucian dryly, for the light tone of the
pretty woman jarred upon his ear.

"Oh, that's all right," replied Mrs. Vrain, putting a gold-topped
smelling bottle to her nose. "I saw the will made, and know exactly how
I come out. The old man's daughter by his first wife gets the manor and
the rents, and I take the assurance money!"

"Was Mr. Berwin--I beg pardon, Vrain--was he married twice?"

"I should think so!" said Lydia. "He was a widower with a grown-up
daughter when I took him to church. Well, can I get this assurance
money?"

"I suppose so," said Link, "provided you can prove your husband's
death."

"Sakes alive!" cried Mrs. Vrain briskly. "Wasn't he murdered?"

"The man called Berwin was murdered."

"Well, sir," said the rosy-cheeked Clyne, with more sharpness than might
have been expected from his peaceful aspect, "and ain't Berwin Vrain?"

"It would seem so," replied Link coolly. "All your evidence goes to
prove it, yet the assurance company may not be satisfied with the proof.
I expect the grave will have to be opened, and the remains identified."

"Ugh!" said Mrs. Vrain with a shrug, "how disgusting! I mean," she
added, colouring as she saw that Lucian was rather shocked by her
flippancy, "that sorry as I am for the old man, he wasn't a good husband
to me, and corpses a week old ain't pleasant things to look on."

"Lyddy," interposed Clyne, hastening to obliterate, if possible, the
impression made on the two men by this foolish speech, "how you do go
on. But you know your heart is better than your tongue."

"It was, to put up so long with Mr. Vrain," said Lydia resentfully; "but
I'm honest, if I'm nothing else. I guess I'm sorry that Vrain got stuck
like a pig; but it wasn't my fault, and I've done my best to show
respect by wearing black. But it is no good going on in this way,
poppa, for I've no call to excuse myself to strangers. What I want to
know is how I'm going to get the dollars."

"You'll have to see the assurance company about that," said Link coldly;
"my business with you, Mrs. Vrain, is about this murder."

"I know nothing about it," retorted the widow. "I haven't set eyes on
Mark for most a year."

"Have you any idea who killed him?"

"I guess not! How should I?"

"You might know if he had enemies."

"He," said Mrs. Vrain, with supreme contempt, "why, he hadn't backbone
enough for folks to get riz at him! He was half baked!"

"Crazy, that is," remarke