The Earl of Engelmeed was dead. His son and heir-apparent had died before him, and now—their next of kin, their worthless relative, Kightly Montgomery, the penniless adventurer, who had been driven by greed of gold and love of luxury to crime and to death—the sinful, dying Kightly Montgomery, was now master of Engelwode, with a rent roll of twenty thousand pounds a year! Ah, if he had only been good and true, he would have lived to enjoy the old title and the rich estate—more honors than he could possibly have gained by all his crimes, even though each one of them had been a complete success! But now, what a cruel mockery of fate! Mr. Campbell, reflecting on all these matters, felt really sorry for the wretched criminal, to whom the unexpected news of his succession to the earldom, coming to him in his last hours, must truly seem the bitterest irony of fortune. “You have bad news there,” said the dying man, glancing at the broad, black-edged envelope. “Yes, I fear so. It comes from Engelwode, in Cumberland, where you have relatives, I think,” replied the rector gravely. “Oh, yes, relatives!” sneered the new earl, who did not even suspect that he was one. “‘A little more than kin, and less than kind.’ There is no love lost between us, believe me.” Hearing this, the rector did not consider it necessary to be very cautious in breaking this news. Nevertheless, he said: “Let me give you your restorative before we say anything more about the letter.” And he arose and poured out the draught, some powerful tonic, compounded of beef, coca and brandy, and administered it. Then he replaced the glass on the table and said: “The letter is for you, my lord.” “What the devil do you mean?” demanded the new earl. “Will you take the letter and look at it? Have you light enough? Shall I draw up the shades?” “No,” said the patient, taking the letter and squinting at it. “This is for my uncle, not for me. Though how it should have come here I can’t imagine.” “Your lordship’s uncle, the late earl, is dead, my lord,” quietly replied the rector. “Dead!” “Yes.” “Dead! But there is Stoors.” “He died before his father. But read your letter, my lord,” said the rector, purposely ringing the changes on the title that he would have too much good taste to bestow on the heir of an earldom under ordinary circumstances, but on this impenitent sinner, on this unpunished felon, on this dying peer, he lavished the honor with unction in the very bitterness of irony. “Read your letter, my lord.” “I cannot! Oh, this is too terrible!” groaned the dying earl, covering his face with his hands. Did he mean, or did the rector for one moment believe that he meant, the sudden death of his relatives, so near together, was too terrible? No, indeed. The man meant, and the rector knew that he meant, to receive this rich and august inheritance just at the hour of death was indeed “too terrible”—was insupportable.