M EANWHILE, in her Southern prison-house, Mrs.Kenyon languished in hopeless captivity. There was only one thing to add to her unhappiness, and that was supplied by the cruel ingenuity of her unprincipled husband.

Tell her [wrote Mr.Kenyon to Dr.Fox] that her son Oliver is dead. He has just died of typhoid fever, after a week's illness. We did all we could to save him, but the disease obtained too great headway to be resisted, and he finally succumbed to it.

"If she's not insane already that may make her so," he said to himself cunningly. "I shall not tell even Dr.Fox that the story is false. If he believes it he will be the more likely to persuade her of it."

Dr.Fox did believe it. Had it been an invention he supposed Mr.Kenyon would have taken him into his confidence. So he made haste to impart the news to his patient. Essentially a coarse-minded man, he was not withheld, as many would have been, by a feeling of pity or consideration, but imparted it abruptly.

"I've got bad news for you, Mrs.Kenyon," he said, entering the room where she was confined.

"What is it?" she asked quickly.

"Your son Oliver is dead!"

She uttered one cry of deep suffering, then fixed her eyes upon the doctor's face.

"You say this to torment me," she said. "It is not true."

"On my honor, it is true," he answered; and he believed what he said.

"When did you learn it? Tell me all you know, in Heaven's name! Would you drive me mad?"

Dr.Fox shrugged his shoulders.

"I only got the letter this morning," he said. "It was from Mr.Kenyon."

"May I see the letter?"

Reflecting that it contained nothing of a private nature, Dr.Fox consented, and put the letter into her hands. It carried conviction to the grief-stricken woman.

"I have nothing to live for now," she said mournfully. "My poor Oliver! So young to die!"

"Who's dead?" enquired Cleopatra, advancing to where they stood.

"My boy Oliver."

"Is that all? I thought it might be Mark Antony. Dr.Fox, have you received a letter from Antony lately?"

"No, your Majesty. If I had I would immediately have informed you."

The effect of this news was, for a time, to plunge Mrs.Kenyon into a fit of despondency. Freedom no longer had for her the old attractions. What was life to her now that her boy was dead?

Mr.Kenyon heard with pleasure of the effect produced by his cruel message.

"Why don't she die, or grow mad?" he said to himself. "I shall never feel safe while she is still alive. What would the world say if it should discover that my wife is not dead, but confined in a mad-house?"

Still, he felt moderately secure. All his plans thus far had succeeded. He had won the hand of a wealthy widow, he had put her out of the way; he had cast off her son, appropriated her property, and there seemed to lie before him years of luxury and self-indulgence.

In the midst of this pleasant day-dream there came a rude awakening.

One day, as he was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, complacently scanning a schedule of bonds and bank shares, a servant entered.

"Please, sir; here's a telegram. Will you sign the book? The boy is waiting."

He took the book and signed it calmly. He was expecting a telegram from his broker, and this was doubtless the message looked for.

He tore open the envelope and read:

He turned actually livid.

"What's the matter, sir?" asked the servant, alarmed by his appearance. "Is it bad news?"

He had his wits about him, and realized the importance of assigning a reason for his emotion.

"Yes, Betty, I have lost five thousand dollars!"

"Shure the master must care a sight about his money!" thought Betty. "He looked just like a ghost."

Mr.Kenyon sent a message to Dr.Fox, exhorting him to spare no pains to capture the fugitive. Not content with this, he followed the telegram, taking the next train southward.