“Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. I have come thirteen thousand miles for this young fellow; I'm ready to go galloping thirteen thousand more. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. He and her father shook hands manfully.
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