‘Looks like it. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Pardon! I wish to say, for your granddaughter, we seek succour. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ‘There are no Remenhams left. Prudence? Mr Remenham’s sister that was. Why did he take me?’ Martha’s damp eyes were puzzled.
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