"Very good!" responded the lawyer.
"Hector Westonhaugh," came from the thin man.
A nod and a look toward the next.
"John Westonhaugh."
"Nephew?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes."
"Go on, and be quick; supper will be ready at nine."
"Eunice Westonhaugh," spoke up a soft voice.
I felt my heart bound as if some inner echo responded to that name.
"Daughter of whom?"