"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ‘I thought as how it couldn’t do no harm, and as it turns out, it done me a bit of good. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. " "Where's Mr. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. “Oh, damn!” he said. “Would you stand it? I’m going to clear out. It was as much as I could do to prevent him flying out of the house there and then and coming after you. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. She’s a snob. .
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