He believed that a crisis in his life had come—that he was about to pass the Rubicon which was perhaps to make or mar his whole future.
The envelope was sealed, but he broke it open impatiently—an intolerance of all delay in learning his fate taking possession of him—and drew out its contents, though with a hand that was far from steady.
There were a few letters bound together with a rubber band, and the writing on their envelopes had a strangely familiar look to him.
Next, there were several closely written sheets which, he saw at once, had been written by his aunt, and doubtless to him, although he could not stop to read them then. He was too anxious to ascertain the contents of those two other papers which lay underneath them.
With a strange heart-sinking, he unfolded the uppermost one, and as he glanced quickly over it, a look of blank astonishment overspread his face.
Laying it down, he opened the only remaining document. There was a minute of utter silence, during which he scarcely seemed to breathe, as he hastily perused its contents.
Then, with a hoarse cry bursting from his colorless lips, he sprang from his chair, the paper clutched in his rigid hands, while the ancient heirloom of the Winchesters, which he had overturned with a sweep of his elbow, went crashing noisily to the floor.
An instant after that hoarse, startled cry rang through the room—after that foot-rest went crashing to the floor, the door of Lady Bromley’s chamber flew open, there was the sound of silken garments trailing swiftly over the carpet, then a jeweled hand was laid upon Gerald’s arm, and the anxious eyes of the beautiful woman searched, with a frightened look, the rigid countenance of our hero.
“Gerald! What is it?” she whispered. “What has excited you so? Tell me!”