suddenly. "How does the fact that she's turned up affect you?"
Mrs. Patello gave him a swift glance, which transferred itself to Mr. Patello. And Mr. Patello, who during the conversation between his wife and the detective had remained in obscurity, sucking the handle of his umbrella, uttered a sort of mournful exclamation, expressive of unrest. Mrs. Patello nodded, and spoke.
"Well, of course, Mr. Wedgwood," she said in a voice that was meant to be confidential, "of course, in these family matters there always is wheels within wheels: you'll know that as well as I do, and I daresay a great deal better, as you're a professional gentleman. You see, it's this way—I believe Mr. Patello told you last night that we know that old Gilson Mortover died intestate. He did—there's no doubt of it. Now Matthew survived him and was eldest son. And if this girl really is Matthew's only child———"
"She's a claim, and a strong one, to the Mortover property," interrupted Wedgwood. "Just so, Mrs. Patello! If she establishes that claim, it's hers. Well?"
"That's not agreeable to our plans, Mr. Wedgwood! You see," continued Mrs. Patello, her voice growing more suave, "the fact is, me and my sister Janet, Mrs. Clagne, has practi-
