Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. “I shall never be able to thank you. It’s a thing I’ve unaccountably overlooked. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII.
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