"Ah now, boy," he demanded, "are you not ashamed to be choking a man old enough to be your own grand-dad?" Then he dropped Martin, with an exclamation. "Sure, 'tis my old friend the little collector man!"
"Mr. Trenmore," began Martin in excited self-defense, "he come in here and he-"
"Never mind what he did till I count what's left of the pieces, my boy. I take back what I said, though. Be he alive or dead, the old rascal's got no more than was coming to him."
Kneeling down, while the rest gathered in an interested group, he put his hand to the man's heart. He was an elderly, smooth-shaven, gray-haired person, with sharp, clean-cut features. The forehead was high and sloping, the mouth thin and tight-pressed even in unconsciousness. He was well dressed, and a gold pince-nez lay on the floor near by, miraculously unbroken.
"He's all right," announced Trenmore. "Martin, a drop of liquor now and we'll have the old scoundrel up and able for an explanation."
His prophecy proved correct. Five minutes later the gray-haired collector sat in an armchair, shaken but able to talk and be talked to.
"And now," said Trenmore, "I'll ask you, Martin, to tell your share in this, and then you'll go out and you'll get everything in the house that is eatable and you'll set it out in the dining room, for it's starved to death we are, every one of us."
"Yes, Mr. Trenmore, I'll tend to it. This old man broke in on me about half an hour ago. He asked for you, Sir. I told him you'd been out since this morning-"
"This morning!" The exclamation broke from three pairs of lips simultaneously. Martin stared.
"Never mind," said Terry hastily. "And then?"