" The Wastrel laughed. 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. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. "I thought you were asleep. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl.
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