"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. His eyes were red. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Then pain entered their depths. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. ’ “Crude, I admit. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly.
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