Your husband could have told you that. ” “I believe you,” she murmured. “To my chagrin, I have. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Sanguine they were not. "Never—never!" The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense.
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