I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. The Wastrel did not relish this. Lucy inhaled deeply. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. “Please forgive me, Lucy.
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