a fraud?”
“What’s the motive?” said the doctor, coolly. “Detection’s too certain. It’s the boy sure enough.”
Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages.
“ Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are seek.”
The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great whitewood square staircase cried: “What is it? What has happened?”
No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news.
“And that’s all right,” said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. “About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don’t kill,