“What’s odd?” Marshmallow demanded.
“Why, just listen to this letter:
“‘My dear Miss Force: We understand you are the only daughter of the late Louise Trent Force. We knew her a great many years ago, and now after many years of heartache over her older brother, John, we find a most unusual circumstance has arisen. Could you come to Rumson and visit our home in order to acquaint yourself with the present affairs pertaining to John Trent, your uncle? Very truly yours, Azalea and Iris Gates.’”
“You never told me you had an uncle by that name, Doris.”
“I didn’t know it myself, Marshmallow! This is all news to me!”
“Sort of queer they invite you down to their place at Rumson, isn’t it? A fellow would think they could write anything they wanted to tell you.”
“Perhaps this is only an excuse for something else,” Doris said, thoughtfully scanning the letter a second time. “What do you suppose they mean by saying they want to acquaint me with the present affairs pertaining to my uncle? I hope I’m going to inherit some money! I need it.”
“Fat chance,” Marshmallow grunted. “More ’n likely they’ll ask you for some.”
Doris did not reply, for just then a smart red roadster swung around the corner. It did not appear to be running smoothly and the driver, a man of perhaps thirty, dressed immaculately but in rather sporty attire, brought the car to a standstill not a half dozen yards from where Doris and Marshmallow were standing.
“Now what?” they heard him mutter angrily.