"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Stanley determined to improve the occasion. ‘If you shoot me,’ Gerald said quickly, throwing out a hand, ‘I shan’t be able to rescue you. "I'll tell you why," he said. 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. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. She’s got a great imagination. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. "Aha!" exclaimed Jackson.
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