"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. . In Old Palace Yard everybody ran. O'Higgins eyed it thoughtfully. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. "Give me the child, or—" As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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