Not much. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. He stood transfixed. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Sheppard. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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