We mustn’t make it so. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. ‘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. There was no mistaking his intentions this time. Cathy opened her beauty shop, you know. You lie about your past all the time and you know it. "I am. "Not so;" answered Wild. Die game. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight.
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