" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. The villain has enjoyed his security too long. ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. ’ ‘You,’ announced the lady, throwing an explosive glare at the captain, ‘are a person entirely without sense. ’ ‘That,’ said Gosse, ‘is a matter of opinion. .
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