CHAPTER XII.
ANTI-"WE-ISM."
Sir Archibald Carlyon, proprietor of the "Courier," and Ralph Bastin's employer, had just arrived at the "Courier" office. The whilom middle-aged, sprightly old man was as bowed and decrepit as a man of ninety.
As he entered the editorial private room, Ralph, for one instant, did not recognize him. Then, as he realized who it was, he sprang forward with an almost son-like solicitude, and helped him to a chair.
"Sir Archibald, what has happened?" he cried.
The old man lifted weary, hopeless eyes, out of which all the old-time flash had gone, and nothing but heavy dullness remained. "Have you heard from my boy, from George?" he asked.
"No, why, is there anything the matter, Sir Archibald?" Ralph's tones were full of alarmed anxiety.
The baronet's hand had been thrust into his breast-pocket, as he spoke. He took out a letter and handing it to Ralph, groaned out the two words:
"Read that!"
Ralph caught his breath as his eyes took in the first lines: "Dear Uncle, by the time you receive this, I shall be beyond this life, though where—in that outer world, that world beyond—I can—not tell."