"No, your Majesty. If I had I would immediately have informed you."
The effect of this news was, for a time, to plunge Mrs. Kenyon into a fit of despondency. Freedom no longer had for her the old attractions. What was life to her now that her boy was dead?
Mr. Kenyon heard with pleasure of the effect produced by his cruel message.
"Why don't she die, or grow mad?" he said to himself. "I shall never feel safe while she is still alive. What would the world say if it should discover that my wife is not dead, but confined in a mad-house?"
Still, he felt moderately secure. All his plans thus far had succeeded. He had won the hand of a wealthy widow, he had put her out of the way; he had cast off her son, appropriated her property, and there seemed to lie before him years of luxury and self-indulgence.
In the midst of this pleasant day-dream there came a rude awakening.
One day, as he was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, complacently scanning a schedule of bonds and bank shares, a servant entered.
"Please, sir; here's a telegram. Will you sign the book? The boy is waiting."
He took the book and signed it calmly. He was expecting a telegram from his broker, and this was doubtless the message looked for.
He tore open the envelope and read: