“But what difference does it make, Mason?  I’m sure I don’t care what he died of—­I mean I don’t want him all cut up to satisfy the curiosity of those inquisitive doctors!”

“It isn’t that, Eunice; they have to know the cause, to make out a death certificate.”

“Why do they have to make it out?  We all know he’s dead.”

“The law requires it.  The Bureau of Vital Statistics must be notified and must be told the cause of death.  Try to realize that these matters are important—­you cannot put your own personal preferences above them.  Leave it to me, Eunice; I’ll take charge and look after all the details.  Poor old San—­I can’t realize it!  He was so big and strong and healthy.  And so full of life and vitality.  And, by Jove, Eunice, think of the election!”

Though a warm friend of Embury, it was characteristic of Elliott that his thoughts should fly to the consequences of the tragic death outside the family circle.  He was silent as he realized that the removal of the other candidate left Alvord Hendricks the winner in the race for president of the club.

That is, if the election should be held.  It was highly probable that it would be postponed—­the club people ought to be notified at once—­Hendricks ought to be told.

“I say, Eunice, there’s lots of things to do.  I think I ought to telephone the club, and several people.  Do you mind?”

“No; of course not.  Do whatever is right, Mason.  I’m so glad to have you here, it takes a load of responsibility off of me.  You’re a tower of strength.”

“Then do what you can to help me, Eunice.  Try, won’t you, to be quiet and calm.  Don’t get so wrought up over these things that are unpleasant but unavoidable.  I don’t underrate your grief or your peculiarly hard position.  The nervous shock is enough to make you ill—­but try to control yourself—­that’s a goody girl.”

“I will, Mason.  Honest I will.”

Soon after noon Hendricks arrived.  He had returned from Boston on an early morning train, and hearing of the tragedy, came at once to the Embury home.

At sight of his grave, sympathetic face, Eunice burst into tears, the first she had been able to shed, and they were a real relief to her overburdened heart.

“Oh, Alvord,” she cried, hysterically, “now you can be president!”

“Hush, hush, Eunice, dear,” he soothed her; “don’t let’s speak of that now.  I’m just in from Boston—­I hurried over as soon as I heard.  Tell me, somebody—­not you, Eunice—­you tell me, Aunt Abby, how it happened.”

“That’s the strange part,” said Elliott, who was sitting at the telephone, and was, at the moment, waiting for a response to a call, “the doctors can’t tell what ailed Sanford!”

“What!  Can’t tell what made him die!”

“No;” Aunt Abby took up the tale, as Elliott turned hack to the telephone; “and I think it’s very queer.  Did you ever know a man to die, Alvord, and nobody be able to tell what killed him?”