CHAPTER VIII.
“ GOD bless my soul, Hawkins!”
The morning paper dropped from the Colonel’s nerveless-grasp.
“ What is it?”
“ He’s gone!—the bright, the young, the gifted, the noblest of his illustrious race—gone! gone up in flames and unimaginable glory!”
“ Who?”
“ My precious, precious young kinsman—Kirkcudbright Llanover Marjoribanks Sellers Viscount Berkeley, son and heir of usurping Rossmore.”
“ No!”
“ It’s true—too true.”
“ When?”
“ Last night.”
“ Where?”
“ Right here in Washington; where he arrived from England last night, the papers say.”
“ You don’t say!”
“ Hotel burned down.”
“ What hotel?”
“ The New Gadsby!”
“ Oh, my goodness! And have we lost both of them?”
“ Both who?”
“ One-Arm Pete.”
“ Oh, great guns, I forgot all about
