Mr. Atkins trembled, and covered his face with his hands.
“You would go to-night—in this storm?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. What is the storm to me? A few miles only divide me from my home and loved ones. And I shall see them before I sleep. Oh, Atkins, how I have looked forward to this hour of my home coming: I have thought of it during the days and nights when I lay chained in an Indian hut among the Himalayas; I have thought of it when pacing the lonely deck at midnight under the stars. I have prayed for this hour as the crowning joy of my life. Almost home! It seems as if my soul would burst with rapture. My home! My wife! My child! The sweetest, holiest words in our language!”
The baronet’s face glowed with a joyous radiance. Atkins was sick at heart.
“I have been careful that no hint of my return as from the dead should arrive before me,” continued Sir Harold. “I came home under the name of Harold Hunlow. Only Major Archer and his family, besides yourself, know that I still live. At the hotel I registered the name of Hunlow, and no one but a new waiter I had never seen before saw my face. The surprise of my family will be complete. Come, Atkins, let us be off. I have a cab waiting at the hotel.”
“I—I wouldn’t go to-night, Sir Harold,” said Atkins feebly.
Something in his tones alarmed the baronet.
“Why not?” he demanded. “I—I have taken it for granted that they are all well at home. Octavia—Neva—how are they? Speak!”
Atkins arose, twisting his hands nervously together. His pallor frightened Sir Harold, who arose also.
“What is it?” he whispered. “They—they are not dead?”