The first thing that diverted their thoughts was a quick step outside, then a thunderous knock at the door, and next moment the captain stood before them, beaming with excitement, panting heavily, and quite unable for some minutes to talk coherently.
“Sister,” said he at last, “sit down an’ listen. Jeff, open your ears.”
He drew a crumpled letter from his pocket, spread it on his knee, put on his glasses, and read as follows:—
“‘My Dear Captain Millet,—
“‘You will, I know, be grieved, though not surprised, to hear that your old friend Nibsworth is dead. Poor fellow! his end came much as you and I had anticipated when we last parted. He followed his dear Clara about two months after her death. I suppose you know that she died three days after you left their house.
“‘My object in writing just now, however, is to convey to you a piece of good news; namely, that Nibsworth has left you the whole of his property, which, altogether, cannot amount to less, I should think, than eighty thousand pounds.’”
At this point the captain paused and looked over his glasses at his sister, who, with wide-open eyes, exclaimed—
“Brother! he must be joking!”
“Sister,” returned the captain, “my friend never jokes, except when in extremely congenial society, and then his jokes are bad—so bad as to be unworthy of repetition.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Millet.