Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country. ‘Bon. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. What were your findings?” Lucy asked. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly.
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