“Sir Thomas,” replied Corbet, calmly, “have patience; the person, Fenton, you speak about, is still alive; but to all intents and purposes, dead to you and for you.  This, however, is another and a far different affair.  Your son has been found!”

The baronet’s brow fell:  he looked grave, and more like a man disappointed than anything else.  In fact, the feeling associated with the recovery of his son was not strong enough to balance or counteract that which he experienced in connection with the hoped-for death of the other.  He recovered himself, however, and exclaimed,

“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?”

“But why have mentioned it to her?”

“I confess I was wrong there; but I did so to make her feel more severely the consequences of her own conduct.  I did it more in anger to her than to you.  My words, however, instead of producing violence or outrage on my sister, seemed to make her settle down into a fearful silence, which none of us could get her out of for several days.  It struck us that her unfortunate malady had taken a new turn, and so it did.”

“Well?  Well?  Well?”

“Soon after that, your son, Master Thomas, disappeared.  You may understand me now:  it was she who took him.”

“Ah! the vindictive vagabond!” exclaimed the baronet.