” “But it is too late,” she declared. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. "Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?" "To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. No, none at all. ’ ‘Don’t tell me,’ exploded his second-in-command. ‘You are outrageous.
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