“The heirs, or nearest of kin to Sir Charles Thornton, late of Halowell Park, Devonshire, England, will find it to their advantage to communicate at once with Compton & Bailey, No. 54 Lincoln’s-inn-fields, London.”
Just below this advertisement was a notice of the sudden death of the young baronet from diphtheria.
Mrs. Richards sat like one overcome by some violent shock for a few moments after reading this account. Then springing to her feet, and taking the paper with her, she went back in hot haste to her husband, her cheeks crimson, her eyes glowing with agitation.
“If what I suspect should prove to be true, the dream of my life will be realized. Sir George and Lady Richards would sound very well, indeed,” she murmured as she went.
Her husband looked up as she entered, and she was startled as she noticed how pale and care-worn his face had become; but she was too eager to communicate her news to pay much heed to it.
“George,” she said, eagerly, “read this!”
She laid the paper before him as she spoke, and pointed to the paragraph which had excited her so.
“Well, I have read it, but I do not understand it; I do not know anything about Sir Charles Thornton,” he returned, indifferently.
“What are you thinking of, George Richards!” cried his wife, impatiently. “My mother was half-sister to Sir Charles Thornton’s mother. Sir Charles had no family; there are no other relatives to be found on either side, it seems, or his lawyers would not have advertised thus, and I believe that I am ‘the nearest of kin.’”
“Nonsense, Ellen! Don’t get such a wild idea as that into your head, for you will surely be disappointed,” Mr. Richards answered, skeptically.