To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. I’ve—dreads. Mr. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. ’ ‘We had other matters on hand this morning,’ Roding told him sharply. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it.
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