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the Ninetieth Street gate.”
    They both rose in startled guilt at the sudden burst of applause from the next room. It was the intermission.
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    Tilney, of course, had made a careful study of the Granger will. It was a simple document, perfectly designed by competent counsel to effectuate the testator’s twofold design: to provide sumptuously for his widow and to deprive the United States of its last penny of tax. The primary function of the Granger Foundation, at least in the mind of its benefactor, was less the study of incurable diseases than keeping the money away from the federal bureaucrats. And so the forty millions had been divided neatly in half, without a single outside bequest: twenty outright to the Granger Foundation, and twenty in trust to the widow for her life and then to the Foundation. But to qualify the widow’s trust for the widow’s tax exemption it had been necessary for Granger’s lawyers to give her a power to dispose of her trust by will. Of course, it was understood between her and her husband that she would not exercise this power and that on her death the foundation would come into possession of the reunited halves of the estate, still virgin to the tax collector. Nonetheless, she had it. She had it, and on this Tilney had based his little plan.
    The morning of his meeting with Mrs. Granger was a bright mild day of early spring, and seated on a park bench watching the pigeons and squirrels, Tilney felt as exhilarated as a young man at a romantic assignation. He jumped up when he saw her approaching, with her three absurd miniature poodles, and, taking the dogs’ leashes, led her to a bench.
    â€œGive me the little darlings, Margaret, and take this pencil and paper. I want to dictate a letter of just three lines. To the Director of the Granger Foundation. Of course, you will wish to add your own embellishments. But so long as the final version contains the gist of my message, we’ll be all right, and Frank Hyde will be all wrong.”
    â€œDear Clitus,” she murmured affectionately as she sat down, “what a true friend you are. I wonder if having my faith restored in you isn’t worth as much to me as frustrating Mrs. Crimmins.”
    â€œYou can have both,” he assured her as she took the pad and pencil and waited. “Now then. ‘Dear Bill or Jim, or whatever you call him: This is to inform you of my irrevocable decision.’” He paused and smiled while she hastily scribbled. “‘If a single penny of my husband’s estate, or any money previously contributed by him to the Granger Foundation, is, under any circumstances whatever, given to Mrs. Crimmins ...’” He paused again, this time even longer than was needed.
    â€œGo on, Clitus!”
    â€œâ€˜I will immediately execute a new will, by the terms of which the entire principle of my trust will be given to charities
other
than the Granger Foundation.’”
    Mrs. Granger scribbled busily until she had finished, but when she looked up, she was frowning. “I couldn’t do it. I gave Harry my word.”
    â€œAnd, of course, I wouldn’t ask you to break it. But you never promised Harry you wouldn’t do a little bluffing, did you? You never gave him your word that you wouldn’t try to trick his foundation into showing a little backbone?"
    â€œNo,” she said doubtfully. “I didn’t. The matter never came up. Do you think he’d have approved of that kind of stratagem?”
    â€œI think he’d have been tickled pink. I think he’d have clapped his hands and shouted!”
    â€œAnd you really think this...” She glanced down at the pad on which she had scribbled his message. “You really think it will work?”
    â€œIt will work like a charm. Can you imagine a foundation tossing away twenty sure millions to save a possible few hundred grand? They’re not madmen, you know. Even if they suspected