couldn't come at once, so I had to wait. She--"

"Say," said Jenkins nervously, "the old man didn't die of anything
catching, did he?"

"Catching?"

"I mean contagious. Your wife hasn't caught anything from him, has
she? If she has, you oughtn't to come around here carrying--"

"He died of old age," said Mr. Single stiffly.

"Sure?"

"Of course."

"Well, we all catch that if we live long enough," said Jenkins,
considerably relieved. "How old was he?"

"Seventy-three."

"Leave anything?"

Mr. Bingle was suddenly bereft of all power of speech. Three men were
standing just outside the long bronze caging that enclosed the
bookkeeping-department, and they were looking at him with a directness
that was even more pronounced than the stare of utter dismay with
which he favoured them. There could be no mistake: they were
discussing him--Thomas Bingle! And they were discussing him with
unquestionable seriousness. His heart flopped down to his heels and