Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Remember that I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, and I’m well aware of your identity. After all, life had still its pulsations. Its very calmness was frightful. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Stanley in person.
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