“I knew you would begin to see how it all falls into place together. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. And thus he was once more free, having effected one of the most wonderful escapes ever planned or accomplished. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically.
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