I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. "Who are you?" inquired Mrs. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ’ ‘Not dead, miss. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. “Quite different.
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