It was put into his hands. No sooner did he scan the handwriting and the postmark than he turned actually livid.
It was in the handwriting of his wife, whom all the world supposed to be dead, and it was postmarked Charleston.
"Good Heavens! What a narrow escape!" he ejaculated, the perspiration standing in large drops on his brow. "Suppose Oliver had received this letter, I might have beenlynched. I must go home and consider what is to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so criminally—idiotically careless as to suffer such a letter to leave his establishment?"
Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed.
On the way he met Roland, who could not help observing his father's agitation.
"What is the matter, father?" he enquired carelessly, for he cared very little for anyone but himself.
"I have a sick headache," said his father abruptly. "I am going home to lie down."
Roland made no further enquiries, and Mr. Kenyon gained the house without any other encounter.
He went up to his own room and locked himself in. Then he took out his pocket-knife and cut open the envelope. The letter was as follows:
My Dear Oliver: