CHAPTER III
"THE THUNDERBOLT HAS FALLEN"
The next Sunday morning was bright and frosty. Mr. Mountjoy was early abroad; his footsteps rang out, sharp and metallic, as he passed briskly down the artificial stone walk of the Mountjoy residence; ignoring clanging trolley cars, he set his face toward the city, striding along with the firmness and ease of one whose vitality is in entire accord with the crystalline day.
As he walked, he meditated.
What would Mrs. Westbrook and Joyce do, now that they were impoverished? Would this news prove of any value to John? Would Mobley, as head of the family, continue on at the mansion which had for years been the Westbrook home? Mobley himself did not know. It was true that he could afford to maintain the establishment; it had seemed natural for him to step in upon his father's demise; but it would mean a complete readjustment of his mode of life, and he was too old to change readily, to adapt himself to new and unfamiliar conditions.
And what had become of General Westbrook's fortune, anyhow? The circumstance presented a condition so extraordinary, that experience strove in vain for a solution.
And so on until, quite unexpectedly, a familiar name caught his eye: Abram Follett.
Glancing from the faded, dust-encrusted sign, he took in the details of the dingy, square, two-storied building that seemed to be sleeping in the Sunday calm of Ash Lane. It was very quiet, and he advanced doubtfully to the closed double door and rapped loudly upon its begrimed panels.
He was not entirely devoid of curiosity as he awaited the issue; so when the door opened to reveal a negro of gigantic proportions, his countenance reflected something of the surprise which the encounter afforded.
"Mr. Follett?" he queried vaguely.