“He also reports,” he said, “that you ’re probably sending these anonymous letters yourself.”
Harper took it without a quiver. He looked from Babbing to the papers on his desk. From the papers, he looked down at the hat in his hands. “Well,” he said, rising, “I ’ve no time to waste on this sort of nonsense.”
“You ’re not wasting it,” Babbing assured him. “You ’re employing it very profitably. Your wife has been ill. With typhoid fever. She ’s recovering. But she has made a will appointing her brother trustee of her estate—in the event of her death—till her son comes of age.”
“What ’s that got to do with you?”
“Nothing whatever,” Babbing said. “But a great deal to do with you. As long as she lives, I understand, you ’ll continue in your present position. But if she dies, you see, you ’ll lose it.”
Harper was very coolly pale, and he confronted Babbing’s critical scrutiny with a firm
