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. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. " "Time will show," replied Jack with equal haughtiness. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Sanguine they were not. But for him she might have been alive and happy. Ruth came to him directly. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. I shall find him yet.
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