"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing,’ snapped Roding, with an odd look at his bride to be that Gerald could not interpret. “It is a hateful story. ” She did not add that he vomited and that she had to loosen the tape to keep him from drowning. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. My goodness gracious. On seeing it, he'll deliver you a box, which it will unlock, and in which you'll find a matter of fifty guineas and a few trinkets. It's too hard.
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