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In grotesque juxtaposition he remembered, together with that picture of Sylvia as he had seen her last night, the case of a respectable old lady, named Mrs. Meeks, the widow of a clergyman who had had a living in the vicinity of Market Dalling.
"I ain't going to listen, if it is, and you know I can't hear with one ear," said Sylvia. "Of course I don't care, but I don't see why they went in there. What were you and Mr. Meeks talking about, Henry?" "Nothing," answered Henry, cheerfully, again. Rose Fletcher had had a peculiar training.
Sidney Meeks was older than Henry, and as unsuccessful as a country lawyer can well be. He lived by himself; he had never married; and the world, although he smiled at it facetiously, was not a pleasant place in his eyes. Henry, after he had washed himself at the sink in the shop, entered the kitchen, where the table was set, and passed through to the sitting-room, where the lawyer was.
We happened upon them, sitting together very properly, as lovers should, in the apple orchard back of Mr. Whitman's, and your daughter stood there watching them. She is very nervous. If you take my advice you will lose no time in getting her away." Mrs. Ayres stood and listened with a cold, pale dignity. She waited until Meeks had entirely finished, then she spoke slowly and evenly.
Shave off your whiskers, fill your pockets with good cigars, and meet me in the café of the Waldorf at three o'clock this afternoon." Meeks obeyed. He found Mullins there. They had a bottle of wine, while the detective asked questions concerning the missing woman. "Now," said Mullins, "New York is a big city, but we've got the detective business systematized.
Tom Meeks, who was leaning over John's shoulder and watching the instrument-board, triumphantly announced presently that they were traveling at the rate of 280 miles an hour! For thirty minutes or more John Ross kept the Sky-Bird going at this terrific speed, then he slowed up, and transferred into mono-engine gear, as there was no use in unnecessarily heating the power-plants.
Sylvia looked at Sidney in bewilderment, then she scrutinized the will. "I don't see any date," she said, at last, "and there is no name signed except just Abrahama's." Meeks stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Mrs. Whitman has, I am pleased to say, been under quite unnecessary anxiety of spirit. The document which she holds is not valid. It is neither dated nor signed.
From the hall upstairs she could get a view of the entire reception room without being seen herself. The last comer was Emily Meeks, whom the maid was relieving of her wraps. She was all alone, apparently at a loss what to do in company, and dressed in a white skirt and middy blouse!
"Well, why not?" returned Henry, surlily, still with a dawn of delighted opposition in his thin, intelligent face. "Why not? Look at the money that's spent all around us on other things that correspond. What's an automobile but less time and more money, eh?" Meeks laughed. "Give it up until after supper, Henry," he said, as Sylvia's thin, sweet voice was heard from the next room.
Wallace says Abrahama can't live more than a day or two, and she has made a will and left you all her property." There was another silence. The husband and wife were pale, with mouths agape like fishes. So little prosperity had come into their lives that they were rendered almost idiotic by its approach. "Us?" said Sylvia, at length, with a gasp. "Us?" said Henry. "Yes, you," said Sidney Meeks.
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