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.

“Why, why, Charles, darling—­why do you ask for him?” she said, wildly, grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified expression.

“Why—­why, he could tell me the particulars of this horrible tragedy,” answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm and surprise, “as far as they have been as yet collected.  How is he, mother—­is he well?”

“Oh, yes, quite well, thank God,” she answered, more collectedly—­“quite well, but, of course, greatly, dreadfully shocked.”

“I will go to him, mother; I will see him,” said he, turning towards the door.

“He has been wretchedly depressed and excited for some days,” said Mrs. Marston, dejectedly, “and this dreadful occurrence will, I fear, affect him most deplorably.”

The young man kissed her tenderly and affectionately, and hurried down to the library, where his father usually sat when he desired to be alone, or was engaged in business.  He opened the door softly.  His father was standing at one of the windows, his face haggard as from a night’s watching, unkempt and unshorn, and with his hands thrust into his pockets.  At the sound of the revolving door he started, and seeing his son, first recoiled a little, with a strange, doubtful expression, and then rallying, walked quickly towards him with a smile, which had in it something still more painful.

“Charles, I am glad to see you,” he said, shaking him with an agitated pressure by both hands, “Charles, this is a great calamity, and what makes it still worse, is that the murderer has escaped; it looks badly, you know.”

He fixed his gaze for a few moments upon his son, turned abruptly, and walked a little way into the room then, in a disconcerted manner, he added, hastily turning back—­

“Not that it signifies to us, of course—­but I would fain have justice satisfied.”

“And who is the wretch—­the murderer?” inquired Charles.