"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. “I remember you now,” he said. "Did you never see two gentlemen with only a couple of peepers between them before!" "Never, I'll be sworn!" said Smith, taking the opportunity of filling his glass while his comrade's back was turned; "we're a nat'ral cur'osity. But a total stranger, a man you never saw twentyfour hours ago! It can't be thought of. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. Remember that. Twenty-one, twenty-two.
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