“He was dead.
“All about him, distributed with devilish malignity and criminal intent, were various clusters of the flowers that had transported him, literally.”
“My God!” exclaimed Dennis. “What a situation!”
“Wasn’t it?” exclaimed the widow. “It almost equals the story on the dickeys.”
“Equals!” exclaimed Dennis with profound conviction. “I don’t know that I care to read the balance of the story after this. Do you know the guilty party?”
“I think so,” answered the widow; “but you can judge for yourself as I proceed.
“Now follow me closely.”
There was no need of this advice, for Dennis would not have missed a word for the world, and gazed upon the sweet-faced narrator with a sort of superstitious admiration as she continued:
“Since his death the patronage is larger than ever.
“I now find myself confronted with what is equivalent to an embarrassment of riches on the one hand, and a famine of intelligent help on the other.”