What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. She met him by the dugout after the game. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. "What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. If Emile can see him, then so also can I.
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