“I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. But they were too late. There are some papers I have to look through to-night—important papers. And, as usual,” she continued, a little bitterly, “I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. ’ ‘Yes, but I do not like to scrub the floor and peel the vegetables and feed the pig. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. “I must explain to her. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Good night. "Where's Thames?" he hastily inquired.
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