Sylvester took a card from his pocket and referred to a penciled memorandum on its back.
“Captain Warren,” he began, slowly, “as you know, and as directed by you, my partners here and I have been engaged for months in carefully going over your brother’s effects, estimating values, tabulating and sorting his various properties and securities, separating the good from the worthless—and there was, as we saw at a glance, a surprising amount of the latter—”
“Um-hm,” interrupted the captain, “Cut Short bonds and the like of that. I know. Excuse me. Go on.”
“Yes. Precisely. And there were many just as valueless. But we have been gradually getting those out of the way and listing and appraising the remainder. It was a tangle. Your brother’s business methods, especially of late years, were decidedly unsystematic and slipshod. It may have been the condition of his health which prevented his attending to them as he should. Or,” he hesitated slightly, “it may have been that he was secretly in great trouble and mental distress. At all events, the task has been a hard one for us. But, largely owing to Graves and his patient work, our report was practically ready a month ago.”
He paused. Captain Elisha, who had been listening attentively, nodded.
“Yes,” he said; “you told me ’twas. What does the whole thing tot up to? What’s the final figger, Mr. Graves?”
The junior partner adjusted his eyeglasses to his thin nose.
“I have them here,” he said. “The list of securities, et cetera, is rather long, but—”
“Never mind them now, Graves,” interrupted Kuhn. “The amount, roughly speaking, is close to over our original estimate, half a million.”
The captain drew a breath of relief. “Well,” he exclaimed, “that’s all right then, ain’t it? That’s no poorhouse pension.”