“No; only a cousin, but my father and I are Mr. Bennington's nearest relatives. What is it you wish?”
“In that case,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, with evident relief, “an' beggin' your pardon for intrudin' on your nach'ral grief an' distress, we might trade.” He coughed austerely. “About clothes now,” he suggested.
“Clothes? What clothes?” said the fairy.
“The deceased's. Or shoes, maybe? Or even hats.”
“What on earth do you mean, you extraordinary person?”
“I mean fair,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes firmly. “I'm here to buy the deceased's garments. You see, lady, I read all the death notices in the N'York papers, an' when I've got ten or a dozen good prospects in one locality I hitch up Dolly Gray an' make my rounds. An' though you ain't on my list, I won't count that against you when we come to dicker.”
“But we don't want to sell Cousin Ben's clothes,” said the fairy in bewilderment.
“Dont-cha!” Dead-Men's Shoes took on a persuasively argumentative air. “Listen, lady. Wotcha goin' to do with them garments?”
“I hadn't thought about it.”
“Was the late lamented a charitable gent? Good to the poor and that sort of thing?”