“Maybe that’s uncle now!” cried Avice, and springing from her chair she went to the ringing telephone.
“Hello—yes—no,—oh, tell me!—I am Miss Trowbridge,—no, his niece,—please come here, Judge Hoyt!”
Leslie Hoyt took the receiver from the hand of the agitated girl, and received this message from the police station.
“Yes, sir; I couldn’t tell the young lady, sir. Do you belong to the family? Well, then, there’s no use beatin’ round the bush. Mr. Trowbridge is dead. We found his body in Van Cortlandt Park woods. Will you come here to identify it?”
“Wait a minute! Let me think!” and Hoyt strove to control himself. “Avice, you were right. Something has happened.”
“Oh, Uncle Rowly!”
“Yes,—” and Hoyt’s voice faltered, “he has been—has been hurt. They—they have found him——”
“I know,” said Avice, standing perfectly still, while her face went white. “You needn’t tell me. I know. He is dead.”
Hoyt looked at her dumbly, not contradicting. He had loved the girl for years, but though she liked him, she would give him no promise, and he still hoped and waited. He turned back to answer the insistent telephone. “Yes; of course, there is nothing else to do. Tell the coroner. I will go there at once. Are you sure of what you tell me?”
“There can be no doubt,” he said gently, as he finally left the telephone. “There are letters in his pockets, and some of the policemen know him. Avice, dear!”