She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. But here’s what is different this time. 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. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical.
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