"Where is he?" he cried. "You can, of course, identify this picture as Lady Trafford's property?" pursued Jonathan, with a meaning glance, as he handed it to the knight. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. Whenever they stepped from the chairs, he stepped down. John knew everybody, it seemed. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water.
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