CHAPTER VIII. A DANGEROUS LETTER.

T HERE are some men who seem to be utterly destitute of principle. These are the men who in cold blood show themselves guilty of the most appalling crimes if their interest requires it. They are more detestable than those who, a prey to strong passion, are hurried into the commission of acts which in their cooler moments they deeply regret.

To the first class belonged Mr. Kenyon, who, as we have already seen, had committed his wife to the horrible confinement of a mad-house that he might be free to spend her fortune. Hitherto he had not injured Oliver, though he had made his life uncomfortable; but the time was coming when our hero would be himself in peril. It was because he foresaw that Oliver might need to be removed that he began to treat him with unusual indulgence.

"Should anything happen," he said to himself, "this will disarm suspicion."

The time came sooner than he anticipated. Action was precipitated by a most unlooked-for occurrence, which filled the soul of the guilty husband with terror.

One day he stopped at the post-office to enquire for letters.

"There is no letter for you, Mr. Kenyon, but here is one for Oliver. Will you take it?"

Mr. Kenyon was curious to learn with whom his step-son corresponded, and said:

"Yes, I will take it."

It was put into his hands. No sooner did he scan the handwriting and the postmark than he turned actually livid.

It was in the handwriting of his wife, whom all the world supposed to be dead, and it was postmarked Charleston.

"Good Heavens! What a narrow escape!" he ejaculated, the perspiration standing in large drops on his brow. "Suppose Oliver had received this letter, I might have been lynched. I must go home and consider what is to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so criminally—idiotically careless as to suffer such a letter to leave his establishment?"

Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed.

On the way he met Roland, who could not help observing his father's agitation.

"What is the matter, father?" he enquired carelessly, for he cared very little for anyone but himself.

"I have a sick headache," said his father abruptly. "I am going home to lie down."

Roland made no further enquiries, and Mr. Kenyon gained the house without any other encounter.

He went up to his own room and locked himself in. Then he took out his pocket-knife and cut open the envelope. The letter was as follows:

My Dear Oliver:

This letter is from your unhappy mother, who is languishing in a private mad-house, the victim of your step-father's detestable machinations. Oh, Oliver, how can I reveal to you the hypocrisy and the baseness of that man, whom in an evil hour I accepted as the successor of your dear father. It was not because I loved him, but rather because of his importunity, that I yielded my assent to his proposals. I did not know his character then. I did not know, as I do now, that he only wanted to secure my property. He professed himself to be wealthy, but I have reason to think that in this, as in other things, he deceived me.

When we came South he pretended that it was on account of his health, and I unsuspectingly fell into the snare. I need not dwell upon the details of that journey. Enough that he lured me here and placed me under the charge of a Dr. Fox, a fitting tool of his, under the plea that I was insane.

I am given to understand that on his return to the North Mr. Kenyon represented me as dead. Such is his art that I do not doubt his story has been believed. Perhaps you, my dearest son, have mourned for me as dead. If this be so, my letter will be a revelation. I have been trying for a long time to get an opportunity to write you, but this is the first time I have met with success. I do not yet know if I can get it safely to the mail, but that is my hope.

When you receive this letter consult with friends whom you can trust, and be guided by their advice. Do what you can to rescue me from this living death. Do not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Kenyon if you can avoid it. He is capable of anything.

My dear son, my paper is exhausted, and I dare not write more, at any rate, lest I should be interrupted and detected. Heaven bless you and restore you to my longing sight.

Your loving mother,

Margaret Conrad.

Mr. Kenyon's face darkened, especially when his attention was drawn to the signature.

"Conrad! So she discards my name!" he muttered. "Fortunately the object of this accursed letter will not be attained, nor will Oliver have an opportunity of making mischief by showing it to the neighbors."

Mr. Kenyon lighted a candle and deliberately held the dangerous letter in the flame till it was consumed.

"There," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "that peril is over. But suppose she should write another?"

Again his face wore an expression of nervous apprehension.

"I must write to Dr. Fox at once," he mused, "and warn him to keep close guard over his patient. Otherwise I may have to dread an explosion at any time."

He threw himself into an easy chair and began to think over the situation.

The man was alert and watchful. Danger was at hand, and he resolved to head it off at any hazard.

Meanwhile Oliver had occasion to pass the post-office on his way home from school. Thinking there might be a letter or paper for his step-father, he entered and made enquiry.

"Is there anything for us, Mr. Herman?" he said.

"No," said the postmaster, adding jocularly: "Isn't one letter a day enough for you?"

"I have received no letter," answered Oliver, rather surprised.

"I gave a letter to Mr. Kenyon for you this morning."

"Oh, I haven't been home from school yet," said Oliver. "I suppose it is waiting for me there."

"Very likely. It looked to be in a lady's handwriting," added the postmaster, disposed to banter Oliver, who was a favorite with him.

"I can't think who can have written it, then," said our hero.

At first he thought it might be from an intimate boy friend of about his own age, but the postmaster's remark seemed to render that unlikely.

We all like to receive letters, however disinclined we may be to answer them. Oliver was no exception in this respect. His desire to see the letter was increased by his being quite unable to conjecture who could have written to him in a feminine handwriting. As soon, therefore, as he reached home, he enquired for Mr. Kenyon.

"He's in his room, Mr. Oliver," said the servant.

"Did he leave any letter for me, Maggie?"

"I didn't hear of any, Mr. Oliver."

"Then he's got it upstairs, I suppose."

Oliver went up the stairs and knocked at Mr. Kenyon's door. The latter had now recovered his wonted composure, and called out to him to enter.

"I heard you had a letter for me, Mr. Kenyon," said Oliver abruptly.

Again Mr. Kenyon looked disturbed. He had hoped that Oliver would hear nothing of it, and that no enquiry might be made.

"Who told you I had a letter for you?"

"The postmaster."

Mr. Kenyon saw that it was useless to deny it.

"Yes, I believe there was one," he said carelessly. "Where could I have put it?"

He began to search his pockets; then he looked into the drawers of his desk.

"I don't remember laying it down," he said slowly. "In fact, I don't remember seeing it since I got home. I may have dropped it in the road."

"Won't you oblige me by looking again, sir?" asked Oliver, disappointed.

Mr. Kenyon looked again, but, of course, in vain.

"It may turn up," he said at length. "Not that it was of any importance. It looked like a circular."

"Mr. Herman told me it was in feminine handwriting," said Oliver.

"Oho! that accounts for your anxiety!" said Mr. Kenyon, with affected jocularity, "Come, I'll look again."

But the letter was not found.

Oliver did not fail to notice something singular in his step-father's manner.

"Has he suppressed my letter?" he asked himself, as he slowly retired from the room. "What does it all mean?"

"He suspects me," muttered Mr. Kenyon, "He is in my way, and I must get rid of him."