“There are five companies, Mr. Ketchum. He held a policy in each of five companies. When it became evident that he would drop dead some day, we discussed that very point. Mackenzie had a horror of being dug up after burial, and having his body subjected to a postmortem examination. So we prepared against that contingency.”
“Indeed! How?”
“As soon as he died, I telegraphed to each of the insurance companies, notifying them of his demise. If they hold an autopsy, it must be done before to-morrow afternoon. If they fail to do it by that time, they will never be able to set up a plea that the body was removed beyond their reach without giving them a fair chance to investigate the cause of death.”
“But that would not prevent them from digging up the body or having it disinterred for the purpose of an autopsy later,” said Nick.
“Oh! yes, it would. An autopsy after to-morrow night will be impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the body will be incinerated at the Long Island Crematory.”
“Then, after all,” said Nick to himself, “it is not his body lying in a self-inflicted trance, nor is it a perfectly made wax image. What is it I am up against?”
A huge Newfoundland dog met them at the gate leading into the spacious grounds surrounding the house. The dog greeted Dr. Abbott familiarly and with demonstrations of great friendship.
“Poor Rover!” exclaimed Abbott, patting the Newfoundland on the head. “You have lost your good, kind master.”