My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. For me that is all over and done with. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. For a time they walked in silence. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage.
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