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“I do not blame him. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. ‘But you have told them that I have been disguised, no? That I have broken into Remenham House, and—’ ‘No, no, child, don’t be alarmed,’ said her great-aunt, her tone soothing. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. I could never make you understand. ‘You! Tell this fool who is the keeper here to come to me at once. ” He stared at her incredulously, and she laughed very softly. "Of course, I haven't the least evidence that the boy has done anything wrong; it's what I'd call a hunch; piecing this and that together. Master, your humble servant. My opportunities have been immense, and my failure utter.
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