Part 16 (2/2)

”That she--ahem! That she couldn't actually THROW it.”

”I'm not so literal as you, Uncle George.”

”Then why use the word THROW?”

”Of course, Uncle George, I don't mean to say she'd have it reduced to gold coin and stand off and take shots at us. You understand that, don't you?”

”Leslie,” put in his father, ”you have a most distressing way of--er--putting it. Your Uncle George is not so dense as all that.”

”I didn't use the word 'throw' in the first place,” said Leslie, with a shrug. ”I said 'chuck.'”

”I distinctly heard you use the word 'throw,'” said Uncle George, very red in the face.

”It was on the second occasion, George,” said Mrs. Wrandall, loyal to Leslie.

”In either case,” said her son, ”we'd be made ridiculous. That's the long and short of it. Even if she HANDED it to us on a silver plate,--figuratively speaking, Uncle George,--we'd be made to look like thirty cents.”

”Well, I'm d.a.m.n--” began Uncle George, almost forgetting where he was, but remembering in time. He was afraid to utter a word for the next ten minutes, and Leslie was spared the interruptions.

It was decided that the will should stand. Later on, the alarming prospect of Sara's perfect right to marry again came up to mar the peace of mind of all the Wrandalls, and it grew to be horribly real without a single move on her part to warrant the fears they were encouraging.

Sara and Hetty did not stay long in town. The newspapers announced the return of Challis Wrandall's widow and reporters sought her out for interviews. The old interest was revived and columns were printed about the murder at Burton's Inn, with sharp editorial comments on the failure of the police to clear up the mystery.

The woods were green and the earth was redolent of rich spring odours; wild flowers peeped shyly from the leaf-strewn soil in the shadow of the trees; some, more bold than others, came down to the roadway, and from the banks and hedges smiled saucily upon all who pa.s.sed; the hillsides were like spotless carpets, the meadows a riot of clover hues. The world was light with the life of the new-born year, for who shall say that the year does not begin with the birth of spring? May! May, when the earth begins to bear, not January when it sets out in sorrow to bury its dead. New Year's day it is, when the first tiny flower of spring comes to life and smiles oh the face of Mother Earth, and the sun is warm with the love of a gentle father.

”I shall ask Leslie down for the week-end,” said Sara, the third day after their arrival in the country. The house was huge and lonely, and time hung rather heavily despite the glorious uplift of spring.

Hetty looked up quickly from her book. A look of dismay flickered in her eyes for an instant and then gave way to the calmness that had come to dwell in their depths of late. Her lips parted in the sudden impulse to cry out against the plan, but she checked the words. For a moment, her dark, questioning eyes studied the face of her benefactress; then, as if nothing had been revealed to her, she allowed her gaze to drift pensively out toward the sunset sea.

They were sitting on the broad verandah overlooking the Sound. The dusk of evening was beginning to steal over the earth. She laid her book aside.

”Will you telephone in to him after dinner, Hetty?” went on Sara, after a long period of silence.

Again Hetty started. This time a look of actual pain flashed in her eyes.

”Would not a note by post be more certain to find him in the--”

she began hurriedly.

”I dislike writing notes,” said Sara calmly. ”Of course, dear, if you feel that you'd rather not telephone to him, I can--”

”I dare say I am finicky, Sara,” apologised Hetty in quick contrition.

”Of course, he is your brother. I should remem--”

”My brother-in-law, dear,” said Sara, a trifle too literally.

”He will come often to your house,” went on Hetty rapidly. ”I must make the best of it.”

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