at green canary!"
persisted the man.

This was the beginning of a great whispering uproar in Jordantown, of
violent curiosity and anxious speculation.

No one ever called upon Sarah, and she never made visits. Now every one
came. They listened to the maid's story. All the little boys in town
were looking for the canary. They never found it.

"I told you so!" sniffled the maid.

On the day of the funeral all the business houses in Jordantown were
closed. It was as if a Sabbath had dropped down in the middle of the
week. Pale young clerks lounged idly beneath the awnings of the stores.
Servants stared from the back doors. Sparrows rose in whirls from the
dust and screeched ribald comments from the blooming magnolia trees. The
funeral procession was a long one, and included all the finest
automobiles and all the best people in Jordantown--not that the best
people had ever known the deceased, but most of them sustained anxious,
interest-bearing relations to the William J. Mosely Estate. No one was
weeping. No one was even looking sad. Everybody was talking. One might
have said this procession was a moving dictograph of Sarah Mosely, whom
no one knew.

The Reverend Paul Stacey and Samuel Briggs occupied the car next to the
hearse. They were at least the nearest relations to the present
situation.

"She was not a progressive woman," Stacey was saying.

"No," answered Briggs, frowning. He was thinking of his own future, not
this insignificant woman's past.

"No heirs, I hear?"

"None."

"In that case she would naturally leave most, probably all, of the
estate to the church or to some charity. That kind of woman usually
does," Stacey concluded cheerfully.

"This kind of woman does not!" Briggs objected quickly. "She was the
kind who does not make a will at all. Leaves everything in a muddle. No
sense of responsibility. I have always contended that since the law
classes women with minors and children they should not be trusted with
property. They should have guardians!"

"You are sure there is no will?"

"Absolutely. If she had drawn one, I should have been consulted,"
answered the agent.

"It seems strange that she should have been so remiss," Stacey murmured.

"Not at all. Making a will is like ordering your grave clothes. Takes
nerve. Mrs. Mosely didn't have any. She was merely a little old gray
barnacle sticking to her husband's estate. She--hello! What's the
matter?"

The procession halted. Both men l