"He's too young for a stroke. Where are his people?"
"'Way out West. And he hasn't many. An invalid mother, and a young sister,— I think that's all."
"Well,—who should be notified? Those relatives? Where are they? Will you take charge?"
"Oh, I can't!" Thorpe spoke shrinkingly. "I'm— I'm no relation,—you know,—merely a fellow lodger in his apartment. I'd—rather get out, any way."
"You and he chums?"
"Yes; both architects. Of course, I know all about Mr. Blair's work and that,—but I know nothing of his private affairs. Can't you get somebody to—to settle up his estate?"
"If he has an estate to settle. But somebody ought to look after things. Who are his friends?"
"Mr. Crane is one,—Benjamin Crane. And Christopher Shelby,—he's an intimate chum."
"Crane, the man who wrote the book about his son's spirit?"
"Yes, that one. Shall I telephone him?"