” He shook his head, and threw open the door of a great dimly-lit apartment on the ground floor. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Maggot. The plank hung over his head. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation.
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