“Ridgewood Cemetery,” said Drew lifting the letter. “Heading, Ridgewood Cemetery,” he repeated softly. “Dated yesterday,” he added with a sly glance at Stockbridge. “Signed by the superintendent, I suppose. Yes, by the superintendent. He scrawls worse than I do. Well, it looks official and smells—ah!”
Stockbridge worked his brows up and down like a gorilla. He chewed on his cigar with savage grinding of gold-filled teeth.
“Smells graveyardy,” continued Drew. “I get flowers and urns and new-turned earth. This seems to be the bare announcement that the grave you ordered dug in the family plot—is ready and waiting.” Drew glanced up.
“Quite so,” sneered the Magnate.
Drew stroked his upper lip. He turned the letter over. He held it to the rose-light and studied the water-mark. He raised his black brows and said sepulchrally:
“Who is dead?”
Stockbridge stiffened. “Dead?” he exclaimed. “Why, nobody is dead! Damn it, Drew, there’s nobody dead at all!”
The detective frowned. “Somebody in the immediate family?” he questioned. “Somebody you are expecting to pass away soon? Some one on their sick-bed, for instance?”
Stockbridge snatched the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the rug. “That letter’s a stab, Drew!” he exclaimed. “It’s a damn insult to me and mine, if you want to know. I’ll have the author of it, or know the reason why. I’ll spend fifty thousand to catch the miscreants. They’ll not monkey with me!”
“The writer of this seems to be the superintendent.”