‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. They were a young man and an old one, and both appeared deeply affected. He HAD followed her! What had he followed her for? He must have followed her all the way from beyond Grosvenor Square. Their conversation hung. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. ‘Ah, the tragedy. ” “How are the Becks doing? Are they okay?” He smiled. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five.
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