(I would give much if I could reproduce some hint of the beauty of that word authorities as it rolled from Larry’s tongue!)
“Then, in God’s name, do it, you blackguards!” roared Pickering.
Stoddard, sitting on a table, knocked his heels together gently. Larry recrossed his legs and blew a cloud of smoke. Then, after a quarter of a minute in which he gazed at the ceiling with his quiet blue eyes, he said:
“Yes; certainly, there are always the authorities. And as I have a tremendous respect for your American institutions I shall at once act on your suggestion. Mr. Pickering, the estate is richer than you thought it was. It holds, or will hold, your notes given to the decedent for three hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”
He drew from his pocket a brown envelope, walked to where I stood and placed it in my hands.
At the same time Stoddard’s big figure grew active, and before I realized that Pickering had leaped toward the packet, the executor was sitting in a chair, where the chaplain had thrown him. He rallied promptly, stuffing his necktie into his waistcoat; he even laughed a little.
“So much old paper! You gentlemen are perfectly welcome to it.”
“Thank you!” jerked Larry.
“Mr. Glenarm and I had many transactions together, and he must have forgotten to destroy those papers.”
“Quite likely,” I remarked. “It is interesting to know that Sister Theresa wasn’t his only debtor.”