"Why, sir, for the coroner," replied he.
"The coroner—the coroner! Why, good God, what has happened?" cried
Charles, aghast with horror.
"Sir Wynston," commenced the man, and hesitated.
"Well?" pursued Charles, pale and breathless.
"Sir Wynston—he—it is he," said the man.
"He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is?—Who is dead?" demanded the young man, almost fiercely.
"Sir Wynston, sir; it is he that is dead. There is bad work, sir—very bad, I'm afraid," replied the man.
Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a feeling of mingled horror and curiosity, entered the house.
He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's sitting room. She was there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like a living being. In an instant they were locked in one another's arms.
"Mother—my dear mother, you are ill," said the young man, anxiously.