“I must. He died the day before yesterday, and will be taken to New York for burial this afternoon.”
“This is terrible,” groaned the afflicted son, as he let his face fall into his hands and sank back into a chair.
The landlord was so absorbed in the overpowering grief of his new guest, that he scarcely mustered up enough presence of mind to make out and receipt the bill of the departing lawyer, Wylie Ketchum, of New York.
As this task was finally completed, the sound of slowly revolving wheels came in from the street, accompanied by the measured tread of many feet.
The tender-hearted landlord came out from behind his desk, laid his hand gently on the afflicted man’s shoulder, and said, while tears came into his eyes:
“There comes the body, now, on the way to the depot. Will you accompany it to New York?”
The young man raised his face, and looked toward the street. Nick was sure the face was paler than it had been when its owner covered it with his hands a few moments before. The eyes certainly were filled with horror, and a wild expression distorted the countenance.
“No! No!” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it. It’s too late, now. Let them go on. I’ll remain here till—till—my stepmother returns.”
Then he drew back to a place where he could look through a window into the street without being seen.
From that place he watched the funeral procession pass the hotel, on its slow journey to the depot.