“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 to-day; 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.”
A confused murmur at once arose, followed by a hurried rush; but of all the faces that flocked out of the bank, none wore such a look of blank and helpless astonishment as that of Hopgood the janitor, as with bulging eyes and nervously working hands, he slowly wended his way to the foot of the stairs and there sat down gazing into vacancy.
XX.
THE DREGS IN THE CUP.
“O eloquent, just and mightie death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the farre stretched greatnesses; all the pride, crueltie and ambition of man and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet.”—Sir Walter Raleigh.