“Queer or not, I can’t find any. It’s a pretty strange affair, to my mind. Yes, I’ll stay here, you go and tell your aunt’s people, and,—Moore, you come right back after you take Mr Bates up.”
In silence the return trip was made in the elevator, for Bates was thinking how he should break the news to the two excitable women upstairs, and Bob Moore’s thoughts were in such a riot, that he was trying hard to straighten them out.
In front of Miss Prall’s bedroom door, her nephew hesitated for some time before knocking. Not only was his courage weak but his brain was receiving so many sudden jolts that he could scarcely control his voice. Why, now, he was his uncle’s heir. Unless he had already changed that will! Had he?
At last, with a gentle knock, repeated more loudly, and finally with a fusillade of raps, he succeeded in rousing Miss Prall, who demanded, with asperity, “Who’s there?”
“Me; Rick. Open the door, please.”
“What’s the matter? You sick?” his aunt exclaimed, as she unlocked her door.
“No; now, listen, Aunt Letitia, and don’t faint—for anything. Uncle Binney is—has been—why, somebody killed him!”
“Killed him! Is he dead?”
“Yes, ma’am”; both were unaware of the absurdity of the words, “he’s downstairs,—in the lobby,—and he’s been stabbed.”
Richard’s teeth were chattering from the tension of his nerves, and the horror of the situation, but Miss Prall’s nerves were strong ones, and she said, “I’ll dress and go right down. And I’ll tell Eliza,—you needn’t. Go in the living-room and wait for me there.”