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Updated: May 1, 2025
As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook his head with a deep sigh. "You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys," he remarked, at length. "I should consider it unethical to give an interview under any circumstances much more so under the present." "Still," I put in, taking Kennedy's cue, "just a word to set me straight can't do any harm.
One paper after another unfolded her story. I thought quickly. Then she had had a right in the Blakeley millions. More than that, the Blakeleys themselves had none, at least only what came to them by Blakeley's will. I read on, to see what, if any, contest she had intended to make.
"H'm," said Benham. "I thought Corrigan " he began. The girl's eyes chilled. "H'm," said Benham, again. It was a month before Trevison went to town, again. Only once during that time did he see Rosalind Benham, for the Blakeleys had vacated, and goods and servants had arrived from the East and needed attention.
As if in a dream she caught sight of the face of her lover and smiled wanly. Could it have been Hampton? It seemed incredible. "The old lady is dead," pursued Kennedy, tensely. "Her dower right died with her. Nothing can be gained by bringing her case back again except to trouble the Blakeleys in what is rightfully theirs."
Kennedy introduced himself as a friend of the Blakeleys who had been asked to see that I made no blunders in writing the story for the Star. Doctor Haynes did not question the explanation. He was a man well on toward the sixties, with that magnetic quality that inspires the confidence so necessary for a doctor. Far from wealthy, he had attained a high place in the profession.
Calvert Haynes, in addition to being a well-known physician, was the family physician of the Blakeleys, as I already knew. "Twice the date of the marriage has been set, only to be postponed," added Cynthia Blakeley. "We don't know what to do. And Hampton is frantic." "Then this is really the second attack of the morbid sleep?" I queried. "Yes in a few weeks.
Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of her mother. "Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley," proceeded Kennedy, "knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die at any moment. But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be entirely sure of their fortune."
The Blakeleys, as every one knew, had inherited from Stuart Blakeley a very considerable fortune in real estate in one of the most rapidly developing sections of upper New York, and on the death of their mother the two girls, Virginia and Cynthia, would be numbered among the wealthiest heiresses of the city.
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