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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. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. "Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. I shall only pray that I may reward you for all your goodness to me. "I alone am to blame. " "Why what will she say?" inquired Sheppard. Gerald raised a questioning eyebrow. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. The police are concerned in it in either event.
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