Then he sensed the trap. Thames Darrell. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. "While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen.
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