“That makes no difference in reality! As his future wife, I have every right of a wife already, so far as this house is concerned. Indeed, it is already mine, by will as you are soon to find out.”
“Very well, Mrs. Black,” said Avice, wearily, “let’s not quarrel over it. I’m sure I don’t want this house, and I am not at all afraid that my uncle’s will leaves me unprovided for. I wish the coroner would come! I long to get to work on the solution of the mystery.”
“How you talk!” and Mrs. Black shuddered delicately; “I don’t see how you can bear to have to do with those awful investigations!”
“Would you sit calmly down, and let the murderer go scot-free?”
“Yes, rather than mix in with that awful coroner man, and worse still, detectives!” Mrs. Black brought out the word as if she had said “scorpions.”
Avice was about to make an indignant reply, when the bell rang, and the card was brought in of Mr. Pinckney, a reporter.
“Don’t see him,” said Mrs. Black, looking scornfully at the card.
“Indeed I shall,” and Avice rose determinedly. “Why, if I don’t set him straight, there’s no telling what he’ll print!”
Realizing this, Mrs. Black followed the girl into the library, and together they met the reporter.
“Awfully sorry to intrude,” said a frank-faced, nice-voiced young man. “Often I wish I’d chosen any other career than that of a reporter. Downright good of you to see me, Miss Trowbridge,—isn’t it?”