Finsbury brothers were ushered¹, at ten the next morning, into a large apartment in Michael’s office; the Great Vance, somewhat restored from yesterday’s exhaustion², but with one foot in a slipper³; Morris, not positively⁴ damaged, but a man ten years older than he who had left Bournemouth eight days before, his face ploughed full of anxious wrinkles, his dark hair liberally grizzled at the temples.

Three persons were seated at a table to receive them: Michael in the midst, Gideon Forsyth on his right hand, on his left an ancient gentleman with spectacles and silver hair. ‘By Jingo, it’s Uncle Joe!’ cried John.

But Morris approached his uncle with a pale countenance⁵ and glittering eyes.

‘I’ll tell you what you did!’ he cried. ‘You absconded⁶!’

‘Good morning, Morris Finsbury,’ returned Joseph, with no less asperity⁷; ‘you are looking seriously ill.’

‘No use making trouble now,’ remarked Michael. ‘Look the facts in the face. Your uncle, as you see, was not so much as shaken in the accident; a man of your humane⁸ disposition⁹ ought to be delighted.’

‘Then, if that’s so,’ Morris broke forth¹⁰, ‘how about the body? You don’t mean to insinuate¹¹ that thing I schemed and sweated for, and colported with my own hands, was the body of a total stranger?’

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