XXX
DARWIN K. ANTHONY
About noon on Monday, Edith Cortlandt received a caller. The name
she read on the card her maid handed her gave her a start of
surprise, and set her wits whirling in speculation.
"Show him into the drawing-room," she said, at length. "I'll be
right down."
As she descended, a few moments later, she was greeted by a
gigantic old man with a rumbling voice, who, instead of seating
himself in the drawing-room as he had been requested, had flung
open the carefully closed shutters to admit more light, then
kicked aside whatever articles of furniture happened to be in his
way. He was now pacing back and forth with the restlessness of a
polar bear.
"How do you do, Mrs. Cortlandt?" he began, at sight of her, his
big voice flooding the room. "I'm sorry to disturb you under the
circumstances."
"You are Mr. Anthony?"
"Yes, madam. You'll pardon my intrusion. I knew your husband
slightly, and I've heard about you. I extend my sympathy."
She bowed. "When did you arrive?"
"Just now; came across in one of those damned joy-wagons--fifty
miles an hour. We hit a nigger on the way, but we didn't stop. I
know everything, madam. What I didn't know before I landed, I
learned on the way across the Isthmus, so don't let's waste time.
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