You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. 1. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. At length, however, the prisoner was got out, when such was the rush of the multitude that several persons were trampled down, and received severe injuries. That is why I called myself Anna. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. Of course, I can't promise you the job definitely. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. He must not in any way call their attention to it. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand.
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