“Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. 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. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. You will stop at once.
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