She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. “I can’t believe it. "It's a whale of a place. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. It was about twelve feet high, nine wide, and fourteen long; and was approached by double doors each six inches thick. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. I want you to turn me. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Dear me! if there isn't his knock. " The Wastrel laughed.
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