“From Mr. Kendrick?” she repeated. “Which Mr. Kendrick?”
“Mr. John, the young one. Mr. Holliday's comin', though. He telephoned from Bayport this mornin'. Came down on the cars far's there last night, but he didn't dast to come no further 'count of bein' afraid to drive from the Centre in the storm. He's hired an automobile and is comin' right over, he says. The message was for John Kendrick, but Dad took it. What's in the envelope, Mrs. Barnes?”
Thankful slowly tore the end from the envelope. Emily stood at her elbow.
“What can it be, Auntie?” she asked, fearfully.
“I don't know. I'm afraid to look. Oh, dear! It's somethin' bad, I know. Somethin' to do with that Holliday Kendrick; it must be or he wouldn't have come to East Wellmouth today. I—I—well, I must look, of course. Oh, Emily, and we thought this was goin' to be a merry Christmas, after all.”
The enclosure was a long, legal-looking document. Thankful unfolded it, read a few lines and then stopped reading.
“Why—why—” she stammered.
“What is it, Auntie?” pleaded Emily.
“It—I can't make out. I MUST be crazy, or—or somebody is. It looks like—Read it, Emily; read it out loud.”