him. She was handsome, brilliant, sympathetic, of aristocratic family, fitted to grace any man's home; moreover she was the superlative choice of his mother and sisters. But, whenever he approached the topic of matrimony, she parried his advances, complimented him on his good looks, his faultless attire, and his manly bearing. She never said anything about his mental capacity. And then, suddenly, along came Phil Westgate, and, out from under his very eyes, captured the prize and bound her in golden chains of betrothal.
So Barry was free, heart-whole, ready for the next romantic adventure. If Mrs. Bradley had also been free and heart-whole things might possibly have been different; but, as it was, he gave strict obedience to his father's injunction, issued in the court-room on a memorable day, and "let Mrs. Bradley alone." For, whatever else he was, Barry Malleson was a gentleman.
The Reverend Robert Farrar was seated at his breakfast-table
one September morning, a month after the
trial, reading his morning paper. His three young
children had already breakfasted, and the two older
of them had been bundled off to school. His wife,
sitting opposite to him, was still nibbling at her toast
and sipping her coffee. In an obscure corner of the
newspaper his eye fell upon a notice of the death of
John Bradley. He had died from heart-failure, at the
age of thirty-eight years. "He will be remembered,"
the article concluded, "as the unsuccessful litigant in
the celebrated case of Bradley vs. The Malleson Manufacturing
Company."
"I must go to her!" exclaimed Mr. Farrar, laying down his paper.
"Go to whom?" was the not unnatural inquiry of his wife.
"To Mrs. Bradley. I see here that her husband died yesterday afternoon. I believe his death lifts the bar of her prohibition, and opens the way to her conscience."
