This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. 255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. " "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. F. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room.
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