At this point a carriage with servants in sumptuous liveries was stationed. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. Beyond the hatch, an angle, formed by a projection in the wall of some three or four feet, served to hide a door conducting to the interior of the prison. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward. “John,” she said, “I can spare you that question. "And now, in return for your liberality, I'll inform you of a secret with which it is important you should be acquainted. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. ” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. The starling, on which the carpenter stood, was the fourth from the Surrey shore. Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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