It wasn’t. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart.
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