Queenie was glad when he bowed himself out of her presence. She shuddered, as with a sudden chill, for the memory of his cynical, mocking smile, as he turned away, she knew would follow her as long as she lived.
Challoner had barely opened the street door ere a coach stopped just in front of the house, and three young men sprang from it, dashing up the marble steps to where he stood, three steps at a time.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the foremost of the newcomers, “for waylaying you in this brusque fashion. Permit me to explain that we are reporters for an evening paper. We have been sent to you, if you are one of the family of the dead man, whose will has just created such a furore, on the announcement that the supposed millionaire was discovered to be a bankrupt, for a correct statement, if you will kindly accord it to us.”
Ray Challoner’s brows gathered into a frown.
“I am the nephew of the man who has just died,” he assented, “but I want to keep it out of the papers; it’s not a thing to comment on, don’t you know.”
“It’s sure to get into the papers,” said the spokesman of the party. “We will have to write up something. It is much the best way to give us a correct account of it.”
He turned to his companions for affirmation of this sentiment, and they both nodded assent, pulling their writing pads and pencils from their pockets as they did so.
Challoner gave them an account to suit himself. It was just as well for the dear public at large not to know the exact truth as to know how matters actually stood.
“That is all there is to tell,” he said, when he had finished, moving away from them down the steps.
Hailing a passing hansom cab, Challoner hastily entered it, leaving the trio on the steps, still comparing notes.