They filed out of the office, slowly, reluctantly, as if not quite believing what they had heard, yet not daring to display their doubt openly. She might change her mind if they remained; so, out of prudence, they withdrew.
When the last of them had disappeared through the door, Britz turned the key in the lock and advanced toward the woman. She had dropped into a chair which the receiver had thoughtfully provided. At her side, regarding her with an expression of puzzled interest, stood a medium-sized, stooped man, with iron-gray hair and beard, whose cold, steely eyes looked down on her as if toying to read her inmost thoughts.
"Why, Mrs. Collins, what does it mean?" he inquired.
She met his gaze steadily, with a faint smile.
"It was very kind of you, Mr. Luckstone, to telephone," she murmured gratefully.
"Telephone!" he ejaculated. "I don't understand."
"Didn't you have one of your men 'phone me? He told me of the will—that I had inherited Mr. Whitmore's estate."
Luckstone turned his searching eyes on her.
"Mr. Whitmore's will was drawn by one of his other attorneys," he said. "I never saw it. It was entrusted to Mr. Beard's keeping. It vanished on the night of his arrest and has not been found."
A shiver ran down the woman's form. The blood seemed to drain from her face; a new terror gripped her heart.