Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. 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. ‘Seems to me like you know just about as much as me. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. I care for you. He does not look the criminal.
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