"For Heaven's
sake, Jameson," he cried, "let the ladies retire before you read
the name."
"It's not necessary," said a thick voice. "We quarrelled over the
estate. My share's mortgaged up to the limit, and Lewis refused
to lend me more even until I could get Isabelle happily married.
Now Lewis's goes to an outsider--Harrington, boy, take care of
Isabelle, fortune or no fortune. Good--"
Someone seized James Langley's arm as he pressed an automatic
revolver to his temple. He reeled like a drunken man and dropped
the gun on the floor with an oath.
"Beaten again," he muttered. "Forgot to move the ratchet from
'safety' to 'fire.'"
Like a madman he wrenched himself loose from us, sprang through
the door, and darted upstairs. "I'll show you some combustion!"
he shouted back fiercely.
Kennedy was after him like a flash. "The will!" he cried.
We literally tore the door off its hinges and burst into James
Langley's room. He was bending eagerly over the fireplace.
Kennedy made a flying leap at him. Just enough of the will was
left unburned to be admitted to probate.
IX. The Terror In The Air
"There's something queer about these aeroplane accidents at
Belmore Park," mused Kennedy, one evening, as his eye caught a
big headline in the last edition of the Star, which I had brought
uptown with me.
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