"Of course," went on Reay, "it's only the newspapers that say he's dead—and there never was a newspaper yet that could give an absolutely veracious account of anything. His lawyers—a famous firm, Vesey and Symonds,—have written a sort of circular letter to the press stating that the report of his death is erroneous—that he is travelling for health's sake, and on account of a desire for rest and privacy, does not wish his whereabouts to be made publicly known."
Helmsley smiled.
"I knew I might trust Vesey!" he thought. Aloud he said—
"Well, I should believe the gentleman's lawyers more than the newspaper reporters. Wouldn't you?"
"Of course. I shouldn't have taken the least interest in the rumour, if I hadn't been once upon a time in love with Lucy Sorrel. Because if the old man is really dead and has done nothing in the way of providing for her, I wonder what she will do?"
"Go out charing!" said Helmsley drily. "Many a better woman than you have described her to be, has had to come to that."
There was a silence. Presently Helmsley spoke again in a quiet voice—
"I think, Mr. Reay, you should tell all your mind to Miss Mary."
Angus started nervously.
"Do you, David? Why?"