What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. 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. Twenty-one, twenty-two.
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