Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. "Here's the door. Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor.
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