Bob Galvin watched the old servant as he passed into the gloomy hall. Hodgson seemed truly to be feeling his way through this old, somber house.
Two minutes passed. The servant returned and almost tottered into the room.
“Mr. Mallory is here, sir,” he said.
Bob advanced to greet Hiram Mallory. Mallory had been one of his uncle’s oldest friends. Bob recognized him immediately — a quiet, kindly-faced old gentleman who still bore himself with youthful vigor.
“Most regrettable, your uncle’s death,” said Mallory, when he and Bob were seated at the flat-topped desk. “It was a great mistake for him to travel so far away in his state of health. Asuncion, Paraguay, still has its yellow fever at times — and it brought your uncle’s death, Robert.”
“Whatever did he go for?” asked Bob.
“He was depressed, Robert. His real estate business here in New York was a large one, and successful, but recent unwise investments have lost him a great deal of money. I fear there is little or nothing left of the estate.”
Bob’s face grew thoughtful, “I heard from him very seldom, you know. I suppose South Africa, where I’ve lived for the past twenty years, made it seem to him as if I was in another world.
“So you think the estate is in bad shape?”
“I’m afraid so. Have you seen the will yet?”