John Higgins lost his bearings in the city traffic. A copy of the issue containing the first section of the Amritsar story was in the old editor’s hand when he fell in the street. She was with him for several hours, until the end. He looked at her long and strangely—eyes more “run-out” than ever. He did not seem to hear her words, but if she remained in silence too long, a little frown gathered on his forehead, and his hand would pull at hers. He had waited for the big story. Once he said:
“I wish Dicky would come,” and that brought Pidge’s slow tears.
The next day a solicitor called at the office and Pidge still felt squally. She couldn’t grasp what he was saying. She thought it had something to do with a secret society that was going to attend an absurd matter, known as “obsequies.” She was deluged in words.
“... Be perfectly calm, Mrs. Melton,” the solicitor said at last. “This isn’t exactly bad news, but I’ve known lasting injury from the one, as well as the other——”
“Please—what are you talking about?”
“Your legacy——”
“My—I don’t——”
“From the late John Higgins——”
“But it was only last night!”