"Rachel," said Mr. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. While this was effected, intelligence was brought that a formidable mob was pouring down Field Lane, the end of which was barricaded. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. The chair is in the veranda.
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