"Oh, it was true," she went on bitterly. "I knew he had grown away
from me, but I never suspected that--that he could be so vulgar!"
That, of course, was the way in which it would appeal to her--as
vulgar.
"It is that which is worrying him now," she added.
"You mean--"
"No matter. He shall have the money to-night, and that will be ended.
Let me go on with my story. As I said, I began to use this room. I
kept my papers in the desk yonder, and worked there regularly every
day. But one morning, when I came in, I noticed something unusual--an
odor of tobacco. You know Mr. Magnus was a great smoker."
"Yes," I said.
"You may have noticed that he always smoked a heavy black cigar which
he had made for him especially in Cuba. It had a quite distinctive
odor."
"Yes," I said again. I had noticed more than once the sweet, heavy
aroma of Magnus' cigars.
"I recognized the odor at once," went on Mrs. Magnus. "It was from one
of his cigars. When I opened the desk, I found a little heap of ashes
on his ash tray, which I had been using to keep pins in, and the
remnant of the cigar he had been smoking."
"He?" I repeated. "But why should you think--"
"Wait," she interrupted, "till you hear the rest. I cleaned off the
tray and went through my day's work as usual. The next morning I found
the same thing--and something more. Some one had been trying to write
on the pad of paper on the desk."
"_Trying to write_?" I echoed.
"Yes, trying--as though some force were holding him back.
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