“That’s the strange part,” said Elliott, who was sitting at the telephone, and was, at the moment, waiting for a response to a call, “the doctors can’t tell what ailed Sanford!”
“What! Can’t tell what made him die!”
“No;” Aunt Abby took up the tale, as Elliott turned back to the telephone; “and I think it’s very queer. Did you ever know a man to die, Alvord, and nobody be able to tell what killed him?”
“I certainly never did! What had he eaten?”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Eunice spoke up; “it must be that something gave way—his heart, or lungs—”
“Never! Sanford was a sound as a dollar!”
“That’s what Dr. Harper says. They’re—they’re going to have an autopsy.”
“Of course. We’d never be satisfied without that. They’ll find the cause that way, of course. Dear Eunice, I’m so sorry for you.”
“It’s awful for Eunice,” said Aunt Abby “the excitement and the mystery—oh, Alvord, do let me tell you what I saw!”
“What?” he asked, with interest.