Stanley, “just a moment. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlor-maid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. The Pellissiers had been an old family in Hampshire, while his grandfather had driven a van. .
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