my arm,” snarled the “son,” putting the offending cigarette defiantly into his mouth.
Milton coolly and deliberately reached over and, with an exaggerated politeness swiftly and effectively removed it, dropping it on the floor and stamping defiantly on it.
“Son” raised his fists pugnaciously, for he didn’t care much for the rôle he was playing, anyhow.
Milton did the same.
There was every element of a gaudy mix-up, when the outer door of the office suddenly swung open and Elaine Dodge entered.
Gallantry was Milton’s middle name and he sprang forward to hold the door, and then opened Bennett’s door, as he ushered in Elaine.
As she passed “Weepy Mary,” who was still writing at the table and crying bitterly, Elaine hesitated and looked at her curiously. Even after Milton had opened Bennett’s door, she could not resist another glance. Instinctively Elaine seemed to scent trouble.
Bennett was still studying the black-bordered card, when she greeted him.
“Who is that woman?” she asked, still wondering about the identity of the Niobe outside.
At first he said nothing. But finally, seeing that she had noticed it, he handed Elaine the card, reluctantly.
Elaine read it with a gasp. The look of surprise that crossed her face was terrible.
Before she could say anything, however, Milton had returned with the sheet of paper on which “Weepy Mary” had written and handed it to Bennett.
Bennett read it with uncontrolled astonishment.
“What is it?” demanded Elaine.
He handed it to her and she read:
“As the lawful wife and widow of Taylor Dodge, I demand my son’s rights and my own.
“Mrs. Taylor dodge.”
Elaine gasped at it.
“She—my father’s wife!” she exclaimed, “What effrontery! What does she mean?”
Bennett hesitated.
“Tell me,” Elaine cried, “Is there—can there be anything in it? No—no—there isn’t!”
Bennett spoke in a low tone. “I have heard a whisper of some scandal or other connected with your father—but—” He paused.
Elaine was first shocked, then indignant.
“Why—such a thing is absurd. Show the woman in!”
“No—please—Miss Dodge. Let me deal with her.”
By this time Elaine was furious.
“Yes—I will see her.”
She pressed the button on Bennett’s desk and Milton responded.
“Milton, show the—the woman in,” she ordered, “and that boy, too.”
As Milton turned to crook his finger at “Weepy Mary,” she nodded surreptitiously and dug her fingers sharply into “son’s” ribs.
“Yell—you little fool,—yell,” she whispered.
Obedient to his “mother’s” commands, and much to Milton’s disgust, the boy started to cry in close imitation of his elder.
Elaine was still holding the paper in her hands when they entered.
“What does all this mean?” she demanded.
“Weepy Mary,” between sobs, managed to blurt out, “You are Miss Elaine Dodge, aren’t you? Well, it means that your father married me when I was only seventeen and this boy is his son—your half brother.”
“No—never,” cried Elaine vehemently, unable to restrain her disgust. “He never married again. He was too devoted to the memory of my mother.”
“Weepy Mary” smiled cynically. “Come with me and I will show you the church records and the minister who married us.”
“You will?” repeated Elaine defiantly. “Well, I’ll just do as you ask. Mr. Bennett shall go with me.”
“No, no, Miss Dodge—don’t go. Leave the matter to me,” urged Bennett. “I will take care of her. Besides, I must be in court in twenty minutes.”
Elaine paused, but she was thoroughly aroused.
“Then I will go with her myself,” she cried defiantly.
In spite of every objection that Bennett made, “Weepy Mary,” her son, and Elaine went out to call a taxicab to take them to the railroad station where they could catch a train to the little town where the woman asserted she had been married.
Meanwhile, before a little country church in the town, a closed automobile had drawn up.
As the door opened, a figure, humped up and masked, alighted.
It was the Clutching Hand.
The car had scarcely pulled away, when he gave a long rap, followed by two short taps, at the door of the vestry, a secret code, evidently.
Inside the vestry room a well-dressed man but with a very sinister face heard the knock and a second later opened the door.
“What—not ready yet?” growled the Clutching Hand. “Quick—now— get on those clothes. I heard the train whistle as I came in the car. In which closet does the minister keep them?”
The crook, without a word, went to a closet and took out a suit of clothes of ministerial cut. Then he hastily put them on, adding some side-whiskers, which he had brought with him.
At about the same time, Elaine, acompanied by “Weepy Mary” and her “son,” had arrived at the little tumble-down station and had taken the only vehicle in sight, a very ancient carriage.
It ambled along until, at last, it pulled up before the vestry room door of the church, just as the bogus minister was finishing his transformation from a frank crook. Clutching Hand was giving him final instructions.
Elaine and the others alighted and approached the church, while the ancient vehicle rattled away.
“They’re coming,” whispered the crook, peering cautiously out of the window.
Clutching Hand moved silently and snake-like into the closet and shut the door.
“How do you do, Dr. Carton?” greeted “Weepy Mary.” “I guess you don’t remember me.”
The clerical gentleman looked at her fixedly a moment.
“Remember you?” he repeated. “Of course, my dear. I remember everyone I marry.”
“And
