were slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and Henry was
large-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn similar
lines in both faces. They looked singularly alike.

Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence to
gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. "I had something to
tell you when I came in," he said, "but I thought I had better wait
till after supper."

He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes
seemed to wax luminous.

Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. "What
relation is Abrahama White to you?" he said.

"She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother's
cousin," said Henry. "What of it?"

"Nothing, except--" Meeks waited again. He wished to make a coup. He
had an instinct for climaxes. "Abrahama had a shock this morning," he
said, suddenly.

"A shock?" said Henry.

Sylvia echoed him. "A shock!" she gasped.

"Yes, I thought you hadn't heard of it."

"I've been in the house all day," said Sylvia. "I hadn't seen a soul
before you came in." She rose. "Who's taking care of her?" she asked.