Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Where can I have heard it!" "Devil knows," rejoined Blueskin. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness.
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