"He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is?--Who is dead?" demanded the
young man, almost fiercely.

"Sir Wynston, sir; it is he that is dead. There is bad work, sir--very
bad, I'm afraid," replied the man.

Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a feeling of mingled
horror and curiosity, entered the house.

He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's sitting room. She was
there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like
a living being. In an instant they were locked in one another's arms.

"Mother--my dear mother, you are ill," said the young man, anxiously.

"Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horrified;" and as she said
this, the poor lady burst into tears.

"What is this horrible affair? Something about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I
know, but is it--is it suicide?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not suicide," said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated.

"Good God! Then he is murdered," whispered the young man, growing
very pale.

"Yes, Charles--horrible--dreadful! I can scarcely believe it," replied
she, shuddering while she wept.

"Where is my father?" inquired the young man, after a pause.