Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. Then he did give way a bit. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. I haven’t, anyhow. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. But that Chink, Ah Cum! O'Higgins chuckled as he passed into the hall and rested his hand on the newel-post of the staircase.
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