‘That is true,’ Melusine conceded. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. He was at length rescued from his assailants,— rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand.
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