Trenchard glanced at the document. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. To-morrow they will know the truth. A brief calm succeeded. And by monsieur le baron, of a disposition entirely unforgiving, I do not desire to be recognised in the least. " "Be pleased, then, in future not to let your surprise find vent in words," rejoined Jonathan, sternly.
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