“Tell me all about it,” said Elliott; “all you know—” And then he saw how weak and unnerved Eunice was, and he quickly added, “No, not now. Go and lie down for a time—where’s Miss Ames?”
“Here,” and Aunt Abby reappeared from her room. “Yes, go and lie down, Eunice; Maggie has made up our rooms, and your bed is in order. Go, dear child.”
“I don’t want to,” and Eunice’s eyes looked unusually large and bright. “I’m not the sort of woman who can cure everything by ‘lying down’! I’d rather talk. Mason, what happened to Sanford?”
“I don’t know, Eunice. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of. If you want to talk, really, tell me what occurred last night. Did you two have a quarrel?”
“Yes, we did—” Eunice looked defiant rather than penitent. “But that couldn’t have done it! I mean, we didn’t quarrel so violently that San burst a blood-vessel—or that sort of thing!”
“Of course not; in that case the doctors would know. That’s the queerest thing to me. A man dies, and two first-class physicians can’t say what killed him!”
“But what difference does it make, Mason? I’m sure I don’t care what he died of—I mean I don’t want him all cut up to satisfy the curiosity of those inquisitive doctors!”
“It isn’t that, Eunice; they have to know the cause, to make out a death certificate.”
“Why do they have to make it out? We all know he’s dead.”
“The law requires it. The Bureau of Vital Statistics must be notified and must be told the cause of death. Try to realize that these matters are important—you cannot put your own personal preferences above them. Leave it to me, Eunice; I’ll take charge and look after all the details. Poor old San—I can’t realize it! He was so big and strong and healthy. And so full of life and vitality. And, by Jove, Eunice, think of the election!”