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 countenance and glittering
eyes.
'I'll tell you what you did!' he cried. 'You absconded!'
'Good morning, Morris Finsbury,' returned Joseph, with no less asperity;
'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 humane disposition ought to be delighted.'
'Then, if that's so,' Morris broke forth, 'how about the body? You don't
mean to insinuate that thing I schemed and sweated for, and colported
with my own hands, was the body of a total stranger?'
'O no, we can't go as far as that,' said Michael soothingly; 'you may
have met him at the club.'
Morris fell into a chair. 'I would have found it out if it had come to
the house,' he complained. 'And why didn't it? why did it go to Pitman?
what right had Pitman to open it?'
'If you come to that, Morris, what have you done with the colossal
Hercules?' asked Michael.
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