“I believe I played my part pretty well,” he said to himself, as he went out. “She will never suspect that I had anything to do with the abduction of her son. When the affair has blown over a little, I will go to Milwaukie, and see Robinson about the land warrant, and its probable value. If the affair can be compromised, so as to bring Mrs. Raymond ten thousand dollars, I will offer myself. That will be a pretty addition to my property. Besides, when her son gets home, and finds that I am his mother’s husband, his mouth will be shut about that confounded fire. Maybe, he will fall overboard, and never come back. If that happens, I shan’t shed many tears. He is an obstinate, impracticable boy, and I shall be rid of him.”
Thus the squire soliloquized.
Meanwhile, three days passed. It was Monday evening. Again he called to see the widow, now, as it appeared, doubly bereft of husband and son.
“Have you had a letter, Mrs. Raymond?” he inquired.
“No,” she answered, sorrowfully. “I hoped you might have heard something.”
The squire shook his head.
“I wish I had any such news to give you,” he said; “but I have heard nothing whatever.”
“I am sure Harry is dead,” said the poor mother, bursting into tears.
“No, no, I am sure he is not,” said the squire, soothingly. “There are twenty ways of accounting for his silence, before adopting such an extreme view as this.”
“I have hardly closed my eyes in sleep for the last three nights,” said Mrs. Raymond; and her pale face and swollen eyes testified to the literal correctness of what she said.