. V. 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. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. I don’t believe in the faults. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. I can see that you were somebody, in another day. I don’t want you to be sad. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. In the one he approached was gathered together a vast assortment of weapons, each of which, as appeared from the ticket attached to it, had been used as an instrument of destruction.
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