The cashier
stumbled over a chair in trying to get at Mr. Bingle to grasp his
hand, and the chairman of the board began pounding the helpless
bookkeeper on the shoulder with a hand that had all of the weight and
some of the resilience of a sledge hammer.
It was Mr. Sigsbee who finally settled down to a succinct, intelligent
question, and at once had Mr. Bingle's attention.
"Didn't you receive my letter in the morning post?" he demanded.
Mr. Bingle no doubt intended to repeat the word "letter," being
vaguely impressed by its significance, but what he uttered was a
mystified, syllable-less "le'r?"
"I wrote to say that if it suited your convenience to come to our
offices this afternoon at three, I would see to it that the other
heirs were present, Mr. Bingle."
"My wife's illness--" began Mr. Bingle hazily, and then brought
himself up with a jerk. Heirs? What in the world was the man talking
about? "I--I beg pardon, sir. I didn't quite catch that. What--"
Mr. Sigsbee held up his hand, silencing him. Then he turned to the
other gentlemen and said in a strained, excited voice:
"I suspect, gentlemen, that it would be better if I were to have a few
minutes alone with Mr.
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