"Really," he said, "I am quite affected at times by her urgency."
"Does she—ever mention me?" asked Mr. Kenyon slowly.
"Yes, but it wouldn't flatter you to hear her. She speaks of you as a cruel tyrant, who has separated her from her boy. His name is Oliver, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"She mourns for him, and prays to see him once more before she dies."
"Is her physical health failing?" enquired Kenyon, with sudden hopefulness.
"No; that is the strangest part of it. Sheretains her strength. Apparently she is determined to husband her strength, and resolved to live on in the hope of some day being restored to her son."
Mr. Kenyon gnawed his nails more viciously than before. It had been his cherished hope that the wife whom he had so cruelly consigned to a living death would succumb beneath the accumulated weight of woe, and relieve him of all future anxiety by dying in reality. The report just received showed that such hopes were fallacious.
"Well, sir," he commenced, after a brief pause. "I do not wish to prolong this interview. Tell me why you have tracked me here? What is it you require?"
"The fact is, Mr. Kenyon,—you'll excuse my dropping the name of Crandall,—I want some money."