“Hopgood,” said he, “your evident anxiety is infectious. What has happened to make my uncle’s detention a matter of such apparent import? If you do not wish to confide in me, his nephew almost his son, speak to Mr. Wheelock or to one of the directors, but don’t keep anything to yourself which concerns his welfare or—What are you looking at?”
The man was gazing as if fascinated at the keys in Bertram’s hand.
“Nothing sir, nothing. You must not detain me; I have nothing to say. I will wait ten minutes,” he muttered to himself, glancing again at the clock. Suddenly he saw the various directors come filing out of the inner room, and darted for the second time from Bertram’s detaining hand.
“I hope nothing has happened to Mr. Sylvester,” exclaimed one gentleman to another as they filed by.
“If he were given to a loose ends’ sort of business it would be another thing.”
“He looked exceedingly well at the reception last night,” exclaimed another; “but in these days—”
Suddenly there was a hush. A telegraph boy had just entered the door and was asking for Mr. Bertram Sylvester.
“Here I am,” said Bertram, hastily taking the envelope presented him. Slightly turning his back, he opened it. Instantly his face grew white as chalk.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you will have to excuse my uncle today; a great misfortune has occurred to him.” Then with a slow and horror-stricken movement, he looked about him and exclaimed, “ Mrs. Sylvester is dead .”