It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. You never can tell. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door.
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