Ralph Raymond's Heir

The only answer was a groan from beneath the bed-clothes.

"What's the matter, I say?" he repeated, rather sharply.

The voice was so decidedly earthly that James Cromwell, somewhat relieved of his fear, removed the clothes from his head, and looked up.

"I—I don't know," he said, "I think I had the night-mare."

"Well," uttered the servant, "I hope you won't have it again. You'll wake up all that are asleep, and make them think that somebody is being murdered."

James Cromwell recoiled at the last word, and he said, hastily, for he feared a return of the supposed spirit:

"My friend, if you'll come in here and stop till I've gone to sleep, I'll pay you for your trouble. I'm afraid of having the night-mare again."

"Can't do it; I haven't got the time. Besides, what's the use? You won't have the night-mare when you're awake."

He shut the door, and James Cromwell lay for a long time in a state of nervous terror, trying to go to sleep, but unable to do so. At last, from sheer fatigue, he fell into a troubled slumber, which was disturbed by terrifying dreams.

He woke, at an early hour unrefreshed, and going below ordered a breakfast which he did not relish.

Thence he went to the depot and took the early morning train bound eastward. He was already speeding on his way rapidly before Robert Raymond arose. The door of No. 41 was open, and he looked in. But the occupant had disappeared. Going to the office he saw the name of James Cromwell on the books of the hotel, and learned from the clerk that he had already gone.

"He's a queer chap," said the clerk; "he had a terrible night-mare last night, and shrieked loud enough to take the roof off. You must have heard him, as your room adjoined his!"

"Yes, I heard him," said Robert, but he said no more.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A STARTLING APPEARANCE

Paul Morton was sitting in his library, carelessly scanning the daily paper. He no longer wore the troubled expression of a few weeks before. He had succeeded in weathering the storm that threatened his business prospects by the timely aid afforded by a portion of his ward's property, and now his affairs were proceeding prosperously.

It may be asked how with such a crime upon his soul he could experience any degree of comfort or satisfaction. But this is a problem we cannot explain. Probably his soul was so blunted to all the best feelings of our common nature that he was effected only by that which selfishly affected his own interest.

"At last I am in a secure position," he said to himself. "Then the opportune death of my ward, of which I am advised by Cromwell, gives me his large estate. With this to fall back upon, and my business righted, I do not see why I should not look forward in a few years to half-a-million."

He was indulging in these satisfactory reflections when the door opened, and a servant entered.

"A gentleman to see you," she said.

"Who is it?" asked Mr. Morton.

"I think it is the same one that called several times about the time of Mr. Raymond's funeral."

"Cromwell!" repeated Mr. Morton. "Show him up," he said.

A moment afterward James Cromwell entered the room.

The two looked at each other with a kind of guilty intelligence. Each saw in the other a murderer. One had put to death his intimate friend, for the sake of his money. The other had sent to death (so both supposed) an innocent boy, confided to his charge, and his crime, too, was instigated by the same sordid motive.

"Well," said Paul Morton, slowly.

"Did you receive a letter from me a day or two since?" asked James Cromwell.

"Yes."

"About the boy?"

"Yes, but I did not quite understand it. You wrote that he had disappeared. Has he returned to you?"

"No," said Cromwell.

"How do you account for his disappearance?" asked Paul Morton.

"I think he must have gone out in a boat on the pond and got drowned," said Cromwell.

"Has the body been found?" questioned the merchant.

"Not yet."

"Was not the pond searched, then?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that he was drowned there?"

James Cromwell moved uneasily in his chair. It was not a pleasant question for him to answer.

"I cannot, of course, say positively," he stammered, "but I have every reason to feel satisfied that the boy is dead."

"And yet, come away from Madison without ascertaining definitely."

"I thought there was no need," said Cromwell.

"No need! Do you think I am willing to remain in uncertainty as to whether or not my ward is dead? What faith am I to put in your statement since it appears that you have no satisfactory evidence to offer?"

James Cromwell began to perceive his mistake. He saw that he ought to have had the pond dragged, and personally superintended the funeral ceremonies of his victim, in order that he might have brought to the merchant the most indubitable proof of the reality of his death.

"Why need he be so particular?" he thought. Then, with a suspicious feeling, he began to think that Mr. Morton was making all this unnecessary trouble in order to evade the payment of the sum which he had promised him. This thought irritated him, and to satisfy himself whether his suspicions were correct, he determined to broach the subject at once.

"I need not remind you," he said, "of the promise you made me in case the boy should not live."

"To what promise do you refer?" demanded Paul Morton.

"You promised me the sum of ten thousand dollars as a reward for my care of your ward."

"It would be a handsome reward for a few weeks' care," said the merchant, sneering.

"I can't help that," said Cromwell, angrily. "Handsome or not, it is what you promised me. Do you mean to say you did not?" he added, defiantly.