Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. "At the bottom of that big envelope I found this one. . ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning. Charley Pevenill was our host. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Then—then we shall be together.
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