"Look here," cried Jonathan, stooping down and taking hold of a ring in the floor, with which by a great effort he raised up a flag. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. ’ Trodger eyed her with suspicion. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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