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Updated: July 5, 2025
Henshaw drew back his lips in a slight smile. To Gifford the expression was an ugly one, and he wondered what it portended. "There is a likelihood of our not being at a loss much longer," Henshaw replied, speaking through his teeth with a certain grim satisfaction. "What, you have made a discovery?" Gifford exclaimed. Henshaw's face hardened.
Bertram, what if they don't like it?" Her voice had grown tragic again. "Like it!" "Yes. The picture me, I mean." "They can't help liking it," he retorted, with the prompt certainty of an adoring lover. Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire. "Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, she Bertram Henshaw's wife? a frivolous, inconsequential "Billy" like that? Bertram!"
Apparently she could, and should. At least that seemed to be the rôle which she was expected to play. It was when Alice had reached this unhappy frame of mind that Arkwright himself unexpectedly opened the door for her. The two were alone together in Bertram Henshaw's den. It was Tuesday afternoon. Alice had called to find Billy and Arkwright deep in their usual game of chess.
There was a peculiar glitter in Henshaw's eyes as he replied, "No doubt they are anxious." "Naturally. They are getting rather worried by all this police fuss." "Naturally." Henshaw repeated Gifford's word with a curious emphasis. "It is unfortunate for them," he added. "But all the same it is imperative that the manner of my brother's death should be thoroughly investigated."
I imagine no one has seen it yet it's not finished; but Alice says " Calderwell turned abruptly, a quizzical smile on his face. "See here, my son," he interposed, "it strikes me that this Alice is saying a good deal to you! Who is she?" Arkwright gave a light laugh. "Why, I told you. She is Miss Alice Greggory, Mrs. Henshaw's friend and mine. I have known her for years." "Hm-m; what is she like?"
Even when the days had become weeks, and Bertram, Jr., was a month and a half old, the extreme lassitude and weariness of his young mother was a source of ever-growing anxiety to her family and friends. Billy was so unlike herself, they all said. "If something could only rouse her," suggested the Henshaw's old family physician one day.
He refused Mr. Henshaw's hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang. Left to himself, the small remnants of Mr. Hen-shaw's courage disappeared. He wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past ten o'clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of home.
He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home or at least Mrs. Henshaw's. Just at the commencement of the street he paused before a photographer's to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with Hoover.
Perhaps, in view of this latest development, you may have knowledge to go upon of some one from whom your brother might have apprehended danger?" Henshaw's set face gave indication of nothing but a studied reserve. "No one certainly," he answered coolly, "from whom he might apprehend danger to his life." "There must have been a motive for the act," Kelson observed.
I had not time to come out and tell you and Patience, the old crones kept me so close, stitching at shirts for a captain that is to sail next week, and I knew you would be coming in." "Where is it?" was all Stead uttered. "What think you of Master Henshaw's, the great merchant, and an honest well-wisher to King and Church to boot?" "Master Henshaw, the West Indian merchant?
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