“I wish you wouldn’t talk about bones at tea time!” protested his wife. “It don’t seem proper, and it sort of takes my appetite away.”
“Excuse me, ma,” Mr. Pyle said humbly, and lapsed into silence.
“Ain’t the police discovered any clew to the thieves yet?” his wife asked presently.
“Neither hide nor hair of one,” was the answer. “An’ that reminds me of somethin’ else I heard in the village to-day. Mr. Massey has gone and sent for Nick Carter.”
“That’s what he’d ought to have done a week ago,” declared his wife. “Has Mr. Carter been to the house yet?”
“He’s there this afternoon. Him and one of his as[Pg 25]sistants—Chick, I think they call him. I’ll bet it won’t be long before they find a clew.”
Mr. Pyle helped himself to another piece of buttered toast, then he coughed uneasily.
“Do you know, ma,” he said, “I’ve been wonderin’ if we oughtn’t to call at Meadowview and leave a card—jest to show our sympathy, you know. What d’you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” sighed Mrs. Pyle. “I was readin’ a book on etiquette this mornin’, and it said when any of our friends was sick, it was the correct thing to stop at the house and leave your card. But we couldn’t honestly say that Mr. Massey was a friend of ours, could we? He’s never taken no notice of us since we came here. In fact,” she added bitterly, “none of ’em takes any notice of us. We could buy lots of ’em up and never miss the money, but——”
Suddenly she paused, and her eyes grew round and big with excitement. She was sitting near a window, and could see the drive which ran from the entrance gates to the front door of the house.