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" "Proceed, Sir," said Trenchard, breathing hard. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. ‘Don’t dare call her that to my face. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. He was a stranger. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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