"Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. " Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed into a reproach. The man could put a bullet through her before she could hope to reach any one of them. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. There is the election——” He laughed derisively.
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