"One thousand dollars," repeated Lawyer Tolman solemnly, "and here is the money."
Young Gillian gave an amused laugh as he fingered the thin package of new fifty-dollar notes.
"You heard the reading of your uncle’s will," continued Lawyer Tolman, professionally impersonal in his tone. "I do not know if you paid much attention to its details. I must remind you of one. You are required to render to us an account of the expenditure of this thousand dollars as soon as you have disposed of it. I trust that you will comply with the late Mr. Gillian’s wishes."
"You may depend upon it," said the young man politely.
Gillian went to his club. There he hunted out one whom he called Old Bryson.
Old Bryson was calm and forty and preferred to be left alone. He was in a corner reading a book, and when he saw Gillian approaching, he sighed, laid down his book, and took off his glasses.
"Old Bryson, wake up," said Gillian. "I’ve a funny story to tell you."
"I wish you would tell it to someone else," said Old Bryson. "You know how I hate your stories."
"This is a better one than usual," said Gillian. "I've just come from my late uncle’s legal firm. He leaves me a thousand dollars. Now, what can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars?"
"I thought," said Old Bryson, showing as much interest as a bee shows in vinegar, "that the late Septimus Gillian was worth something like half a million."
"He was," agreed Gillian, "and that’s where the joke comes in. He’s left part of it to the man who discovers a new type of bacteria and the rest to establish a hospital for doing away with it again. The butler and the housekeeper get a seal ring and ten dollars each. His nephew gets a thousand dollars."
"You’ve always had plenty of money to spend," observed Old Bryson.
"Tons," said Gillian. "Uncle was the fairy godmother as far as an allowance was concerned."
"Any other heirs?" asked Old Bryson.
"None." Gillian frowned uneasily. "There is a Miss Hayden, a ward of my uncle, who lived in his house. She’s a quiet thing. I forgot to say that she was in on the seal-ring-and-ten-dollars joke too. Don’t be superior and insulting, Old Bryson—tell me what a fellow can do with a thousand dollars."
Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that he intended to be more offensive than ever.
"A thousand dollars," he said, "means much or little. One man may buy a happy home with it and laugh at Rockefeller. Another could send his wife for a vacation with it and save her life. A thousand dollars would buy pure milk for one hundred babies during June, July, and August and save fifty of their lives. It would provide an education to an ambitious boy."
"People might like you, Old Bryson," said Gillian, always unruffled, "if you wouldn’t moralize. I asked you to tell me what I could do with a thousand dollars."
"You?" said Bryson with a gentle laugh. "Why, Bobby Gillian, there’s only one logical thing you could do. You can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond pendant."
"Thanks," said Gillian, rising. "I thought I could depend upon you, Old Bryson. You’ve got the right idea. I wanted to spend the money in a lump sum, for I’ve got to turn in an account for it, and I hate itemizing."
Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver: "The Columbine Theatre."
Miss Lotta Lauriere was almost ready for her call at a crowded matinee, when her dresser mentioned the name of Mr. Gillian.
"Now, what is it, Bobby?" said Miss Lauriere. "I’m going on in two minutes."
"It won’t take two minutes. What do you say to a little pendant? I can spend a grand."
"Oh, just as you say," replied Miss Lauriere. "Say, Bobby, did you see that necklace Della Stacey had on the other night? Twenty-two hundred dollars it cost at Tiffany’s. But—"
"Miss Lauriere for the opening chorus!" cried the callboy.
Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting.
"What would you do with a thousand dollars?" he asked the driver.
"Open a saloon," said the cabby promptly. "I know a place I could take money in with both hands. It’s a four-story brick on a corner. I’ve got it figured out: second story, Chinese food; third floor, manicures; fourth floor, poolroom. If you’re thinking of putting up the capital—"
"Oh no," said Gillian, "I merely asked from curiosity. I’ll pay you by the hour. Drive ’til I tell you to stop."
Eight blocks down Broadway, Gillian got out. A blind man sat upon a stool on the sidewalk selling pencils. Gillian went out and stood before him.
"Excuse me," he said, "but would you mind telling me what you would do if you had a thousand dollars?"
"Take a look at that, if you like," said the blind man. He drew a bank deposit book from his coat pocket and held it out. It showed a total of $1,785.
Gillian got back into the cab. "I forgot something," he said. "You may drive to the law offices of Tolman & Sharp, at Broadway."
Back at the office, Tolman looked at him hostilely and inquiringly through his gold-rimmed glasses.
"I beg your pardon," said Gillian cheerfully, "but may I ask you a question? It is not an impertinent one, I hope. Was Miss Hayden left anything by my uncle’s will besides the ring and the ten dollars?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Tolman.
"I thank you very much, sir," said Gillian, and on he went to his cab. He gave the driver the address of his late uncle’s home.
Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library. She was small and slender and clothed in black. But you would have noticed her eyes. Gillian drifted in with his air of regarding the world as inconsequential.
"I’ve just come from old Tolman’s," he explained. "They’ve been going over the papers down there. They found a"—Gillian searched his memory for a legal term—"they found a postscript or something to the will. It seems that the old boy willed you a thousand dollars. Tolman asked me to bring you the money. Here it is. You’d better count it to see if it’s right." Gillian laid the money on the desk.
Miss Hayden turned white. "Oh!" she said, and again, "Oh!"
Gillian half turned and looked out the window.
"I suppose, of course," he said, in a low voice, "that you know I love you."
"I’m sorry," said Miss Hayden, taking up her money.
"So there is no hope for us?" asked Gillian, almost lightheartedly.
"I am sorry," she said again.
"May I write a note?" asked Gillian, with a smile. She supplied him with paper and pen, and then went back to her desk.
Gillian made out his account of his expenditure of the thousand dollars in these words: "Paid by the black sheep, Robert Gillian, one thousand dollars on account of the eternal happiness owed by heaven to the best and dearest woman on earth."
Gillian slipped his writing into an envelope, bowed, and went his way.
His cab stopped again at the offices of Tolman & Sharp.
"I have spent the thousand dollars," he said cheerily to Tolman. He tossed a white envelope on the lawyer’s table. "You will find there an account, sir, of the vanishing of the dollars."
Without touching the envelope, Mr. Tolman went to a door and called his partner, Sharp. Together they explored the caverns of an immense safe. From the safe, they dragged a big envelope sealed with wax, which they invaded, and wagged their venerable heads together over its contents. Then Tolman became spokesman.
"Mr. Gillian," he said formally, "there was a supplement to your uncle’s will. It was entrusted to us privately, with instructions that it not be opened until you had furnished us with a full account of your handling of the thousand dollars. I will acquaint you with the spirit of its contents.
"In the event that your expenditure of the thousand dollars demonstrates that you possess any of the qualifications that deserve reward, much benefit will come to you. Mr. Sharp and I are named as the judges. If your disposal of the money in question has been prudent, wise, or unselfish, it is in our power to hand you fifty thousand dollars. But if you have used this money foolishly, the fifty thousand is to be paid to Miriam Hayden without delay. Now, Mr. Gillian, Mr. Sharp and I will examine your account in regard to the thousand dollars."
Mr. Tolman reached for the envelope. Gillian was a little quicker in taking it up. He slowly tore the account and its cover into strips and dropped them into his pocket.
"It's all right," he said, smilingly. "There isn’t a bit of need to bother you with this. I lost the thousand dollars on the horse races. Good day, gentlemen."
Tolman and Sharp shook their heads mournfully at each other when Gillian left, for they heard him whistling gaily in the hallway as he waited for the elevator.