“Found! Tom found!—little Tom found! My God! When—where—how?”
“Have the goodness to sit down, sir,” replied Corbet, “and I will tell you.”
The baronet took a seat, but the feeling of disappointment, although checked by the intelligence of his son, was not extinguished, and could still be read in his countenance. He turned his eyes upon Corbet and said,
“Well, Corbet, go on; he is not dead, though?”
“No, sir; thank God, he is not.”
“Who—who—are you speaking of? Oh, I forgot—proceed. Yes, Corbet, you are right; I am very much disturbed. Well, speak about my son. Where is he? In what condition of life? Is he a gentleman—a beggar—a profligate—what?”
“You remember, Sir Thomas—hem—you remember that unfortunate affair with my sister?”
Corbet's face became deadly pale as he spoke, and his voice grew, by degrees, hollow and husky; yet he was both calm and cool, as far, at least, as human observation could form a conjecture.
“Of course I do; it was a painful business; but the girl was a fool for losing her senses.”
“Hear me, Sir Thomas. When her child died, you may remember my father sent me to you, as its parent, for the means of giving it decent interment. You cannot forget your words to me on that occasion. I confess I felt them myself as very offensive. What, then, must his mother have suffered—wild, unsettled, and laboring, as she was, under a desperate sense of the injury she had experienced at your hands?”