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Sir John hesitated. Lucy's ears were singing. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. ‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade. “Great!” Cathy squealed.
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