CHAPTER XVII. ’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. It was not your fault you failed. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. She was no longer there. The girl nodded sagely. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer.
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