He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. “I’m next, Mr. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham. Honestly, I never did. Go away!” “Why kill this one, Lucia? She shall be missed. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. The man is a stranger to me. She said you HAD some money. Following his guide, Sir Rowland found himself in a large and lofty apartment, the extent of which he could not entirely discern until lights were set upon the table.
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