The House of Mammon by Fred M. White

Nest woke with the consciousness that her troubles lay heavily upon her. Had she lived her life and was the end of her happiness at hand? The grey years were terribly long and dreary to contemplate. Yet it was difficult to imagine such things. Marlton Grange was no setting for a gruesome and sordid tragedy. Here was a perfect morning with a world bathed in a flood of glorious sunshine, and silvery dew bedecking the geraniums and roses in the garden. A gardener was whistling blithely at his work. A Persian kitten was playing with a ball of wool. Everything was so peaceful, so refined and far removed from all that was mean and squalid.

It was absurd to believe that this was the home of so notorious a rascal as John Blaydon! Why, a man of that type could never have felt comfortable here! He would have needed something far more flashy.