The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. Crocodile Tears.
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