“But what has that to do——” began Betty, becoming more and more puzzled.
“I’m telling you,” insisted Allen. She had never known him to be so impatient of interruption before. “Just about here enters the sister of Luther Weeks.”
“Weeks! Weeks! Luther Weeks!” repeated Betty, gazing wide-eyed at Allen. “Who was he?”
“Luther Weeks was the name of the old man who just died—my client,” explained Allen, trying hard to be patient.
“Oh!” exclaimed Betty, and then as the thing came to her with full force she gripped his arm excitedly. “Allen,” she cried, “that is the name of our old lady—our Old Maid of the Mountains! Isabella Weeks!”
“Then that practically settles it,” returned Allen, the light of great relief in his eyes. “By Jove, but this is luck!”
“You haven’t really told me anything,” cried Betty, shaking his arm, for it was her turn to be impatient. “Even if our Old Maid of the Mountains is the sister of your dead client, I don’t see——”
“That’s the romantic—and pathetic—part of it,” said Allen, softly. “In her youth Isabella Weeks was engaged to be married to James Barton, the partner of her brother, Luther Weeks.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Betty, then clapped her hand over her mouth, waiting eagerly for Allen to go on.
“When the partners quarreled,” the young lawyer continued, slowly, “Luther Weeks commanded his sister to give up Barton.”