The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Wood could give him no further information respecting Sir Rowland Trenchard than what he had obtained from Kneebone; but begged him to defer the further consideration of the line of conduct he meant to pursue until the morrow, when he hoped to have a plan to lay before him, of which he would approve. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "You open it, Ruth.
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