“I—I shouldn't have allowed him to go out,” she stammered. “I—Oh, Uncle Dawy!”
Mrs. Carstairs put her arm about the girl's waist and led her from the room. Carstairs looked up at his son.
“I guess you can stand it, Alfred. He's dead. Instantly killed.” He spoke into the transmitter. “Tell me how it happened, please.”
He hung up the receiver a moment or two later.
“Run down at the corner of Madison Avenue and 48th Street. There were two witnesses, and both say that he was standing in the street waiting for a car. The automobile was going forty miles an hour. He never knew what hit him. Poor devil! Have you ever heard him mention his family, Alfred? We must notify some one, of course.”
“No, sir,” said his son. “He seemed a quiet sort. The other servants may know. Mother says his references were of the highest order,—that's all I know. What a terrible thing to have—”
“We must not worry your mother with this tonight, my son. She's had enough for today.”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Alfred, clenching his hands. He choked up, and said no more.