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That dinner was going like an airship on a high wind, when something happened to tangle its tail feathers, and I can hardly write it for trembling yet. It was a simple little telegram, but it might have been nitro-glycerine on a tear for the way it acted. It was for me, but the nephew handed it to Tom, and he opened it and, looking at me, he solemnly read it out loud. It said— "We asked you today to help us break up housekeeping," he said with his winning smile; "but I must confess that I for one have deceived you. I planned to get you all here for a totally different purpose, and I trust you will approve of my craftiness when you have seen what I have to show you." "After you left me, sir," he said in a weak voice, "I remained seated in my chair beside the bedside of my poor young master. If you remember there was only one candle in the room, which was placed on the table, some little distance away. I examined the window and found it closed.".

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"I see," said Jen, thoughtfully, "and I can understand their motives. Dido wished you to marry Etwald." "It looks sort of whopper-jawed, doesn't it, Miss Pat?" asked David, hesitating. "I can see it's going to be a stunner when it's done, but I guess I'm weak on sculpture anyway. I can't understand it in the green stage." "You must be, if you know who killed Maurice, yet refuse to confess," retorted Jen, with some heat. "Will you tell me the truth? I ask you for the last time." "What do you want to make a show of her for, Bruce?" she remonstrated feelingly. "You can say all you have to say right here, can't you?".