At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. This she put into the trunk. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him.
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