“How sick is he?”
“He is very, very ill. It was an operation, and he has had a relapse. But we hope he's coming out all right.”
“What hospital is he in?”
Boyne gave the name.
“I think I'll call up and ask when it is expected that he can see visitors,” announced Fogg, with business briskness. “I wish Franklin had been here on deck—Franklin, himself.”
“I don't believe Mr. Franklin would turn a trick of this sort,” asserted the clerk. “I'd hate to face him, after doing it myself.”
“Franklin would be able to see further into a financial deal than a young chap,” said Mr. Fogg, severely, and then he found his number and made his call. “Good heavens!” he blurted, after a question. “I am in his office. Yes, I'll tell Boyne.”
With a fine affectation of grief and surprise, he snapped the transmitter upon the hook and whirled on Boyne. His back had been toward the young man—he had spoken with hand across the receiver.
“He has just died—he's dead! Franklin has passed away.”
“I would have been notified,” gasped Boyne.