Sheppard, hastily; "is that the name?" "Ay, ay, now I look again it is Trenchard. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs.
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