Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. “Your mother was a Gypsy. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. His face was downcast. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. "I beg pardon, Sir," replied Jack, with the accent and manner of the janizary; "I was betrayed into the exclamation by my surprise that anything in which Sir Rowland Trenchard was interested could have reference to so humble a person as Mrs. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick.
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