The question explained everything. Mrs. Cox closed her lips with a snap and shook her head.
“Don’t play the fool,” said her husband, wildly; “my neck’s in danger.”
“I haven’t got anything,” asseverated Mrs. Cox. “It’s no good looking like that, Henry, I can’t make money.”
Mr. Cox’s reply was interrupted by a loud knock at the hall door, which he was pleased to associate with the police. It gave him a fine opportunity for melodrama, in the midst of which his wife, rightly guessing that Mrs. Berry had returned according to arrangement, went to the door to admit her. The visitor was only busy two minutes on the door-mat, but in that time Mrs. Cox was able in low whispers to apprise her of the state of affairs.
“That’s my uncle all over,” said Mrs. Berry, fiercely; “that’s just the mean trick I should have expected of him. You leave ’em to me, my dear.”
She followed her friend into the drawing-room, and having shaken hands with Mr. Cox, drew her handkerchief from her pocket and applied it to her eyes.
“She’s told me all about it,” she said, nodding at Mrs. Cox, “and it’s worse than you think, much worse. It isn’t a broker’s man—it’s my poor uncle, Joseph Piper.”
“Your uncle!” repeated Mr. Cox, reeling back; “the broker’s man your uncle?”
Mrs. Berry sniffed. “It was a little joke on our part,” she admitted, sinking into a chair and holding her handkerchief to her face. “Poor uncle; but I dare say he’s happier where he is.”
With its head tilted back, studyin Mr. Cox wiped his brow, and then, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, stared at her in well-simulated amazement.