"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. " "In what way, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, in astonishment. It was horrible, but she must do it. ‘All right, Trodger. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction.
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