"Hold!" interrupted the old clerk, in an earnest voice, and impressive manner; "Heaven has avenged your wrongs in a sudden and fearful manner. Mr. Granite is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Henry, in a subdued tone; "with him let his misdeeds be buried. His son will perhaps be more merciful; he will inherit"——
"He has inherited—his father's fate," solemnly replied the old clerk. "Justice may slumber for a while, but retribution must come at last. You are now, by the merchant's will, his sole heir."
"Ho, ho!" thought Mrs. Grimgriskin, who had been an attentive listener, "I'm a woman of few words, but if I had been a woman of less, perhaps it would be more to my interest; but sudden millionaires are usually generous;" and so, smoothing her feline demeanor into quietude, she approached Travers.
"Allow me most sincerely to congratulate you upon your good fortune," she simpered. "Apropos, the first floor is somewhat in arrear; lovely apartments, new carpet, bath, hot water."
"Plenty of that, I'll be bail," remarked O'Bryan; "arrah, howld yer prate, Mrs. Woman-of-few-words—don't you see there's one too many here?"
"Then why don't you go, you ignorant animal," sharply suggested the other.
"Because I'm not the one."
Suffice it to say, Henry, with his young wife, and dear old Sterling, were soon installed in a house of their own, and, to their credit, never lost sight of the interest of Tom Bobolink and Polly, who from that day increased in content and prosperity.
As for O'Bryan, the last intimation we had of his well-doing, was the appearance of sundry gigantic street-bills, which contained the following announcement: