It was Monday evening when we found the body of poor old Thomas.  Monday night had been uneventful; things were quiet at the house and the peculiar circumstances of the old man’s death had been carefully kept from the servants.  Rosie took charge of the dining-room and pantry, in the absence of a butler, and, except for the warning of the Casanova doctor, everything breathed of peace.

Affairs at the Traders’ Bank were progressing slowly.  The failure had hit small stock-holders very hard, the minister of the little Methodist chapel in Casanova among them.  He had received as a legacy from an uncle a few shares of stock in the Traders’ Bank, and now his joy was turned to bitterness:  he had to sacrifice everything he had in the world, and his feeling against Paul Armstrong, dead, as he was, must have been bitter in the extreme.  He was asked to officiate at the simple services when the dead banker’s body was interred in Casanova churchyard, but the good man providentially took cold, and a substitute was called in.

A few days after the services he called to see me, a kind-faced little man, in a very bad frock-coat and laundered tie.  I think he was uncertain as to my connection with the Armstrong family, and dubious whether I considered Mr. Armstrong’s taking away a matter for condolence or congratulation.  He was not long in doubt.

I liked the little man.  He had known Thomas well, and had promised to officiate at the services in the rickety African Zion Church.  He told me more of himself than he knew, and before he left, I astonished him—­and myself, I admit—­by promising a new carpet for his church.  He was much affected, and I gathered that he had yearned over his ragged chapel as a mother over a half-clothed child.

“You are laying up treasure, Miss Innes,” he said brokenly, “where neither moth nor rust corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.”

“It is certainly a safer place than Sunnyside,” I admitted.  And the thought of the carpet permitted him to smile.  He stood just inside the doorway, looking from the luxury of the house to the beauty of the view.

“The rich ought to be good,” he said wistfully.  “They have so much that is beautiful, and beauty is ennobling.  And yet—­while I ought to say nothing but good of the dead—­Mr. Armstrong saw nothing of this fair prospect.  To him these trees and lawns were not the work of God.  They were property, at so much an acre.  He loved money, Miss Innes.  He offered up everything to his golden calf.  Not power, not ambition, was his fetish:  it was money.”  Then he dropped his pulpit manner, and, turning to me with his engaging smile:  “In spite of all this luxury,” he said, “the country people here have a saying that Mr. Paul Armstrong could sit on a dollar and see all around it.  Unlike the summer people, he gave neither to the poor nor to the church.  He loved money for its own sake.”

“And there are no pockets in shrouds!” I said cynically.