The young man turned his head away, and his voice grew thick. "He died down in the office."
"Heart trouble?"
"Yes. He never told us if he knew he had a weak heart. The shock was terrible."
The young man took his companion's groping hand.
"Linda is prostrated. We have had to save her in every way. Poor Harriet! She has had to be a heroine."
The speaker's voice thickened and choked again, and hand in hand the two kept an unbroken silence until the motor drew up before the house on Michigan Avenue, where lilies and ferns hung against the heavy door.
CHAPTER VII
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
During the monotonous days following the funeral, Miss Barry and her niece dwelt alone in the big, echoing house. Harriet had gone home to her husband and child. The papers still resounded with the Barry tragedy, but it was not difficult to keep them from Linda, whose stormy grief had changed to utter listlessness.