“Millionaires, and rent a house!”
“Yes, they’re in the city so little, you know. And it’s a most desirable house. Fenn Whiting owns it.”
“What?” Coley Coe was stunned.
“Yes, it belongs to Mr. Whiting. It was left to him with several other houses by an uncle who died years ago.”
“Oh! Whoopee! Wow! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Webb, but I must be allowed to yell! Fenn Whiting owns this house! My heavens and earth!”
“What is the matter? Are you crazy, Mr. Coe? Why does it so please you to learn that?”
“Oh, because—because—excuse me, ladies, I must run away,—I’ve most important business. I’ll see you again later,—this evening, say,—and then I’ll tell you,—oh, a whole heap of things!”
“Wait a minute,” as he started back through the fireplace. “Help us through, please!”
“I beg pardon, Miss Webb! I guess I am crazy! Come, give me your hand.”
The trip was safely made by all three, and then Coe carefully closed the fireplace, and noted that it showed no crack or crevice where the pivot turned.