" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. The owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. These were seated in an imperfect semicircle about a very copper-adorned fireplace, surmounted by a carved wood inscription: “DO IT NOW. Montague Hill. . In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and returned to them scared by greater dangers.
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