I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. He groped her buttocks. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker. I went to the theatre that night. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. She had remained patently unavailable to him. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. "Has any one been here?" he asked. No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible. The movie droned on, the sounds becoming manageable except for the frequent high-pitched screams of young girls when a poltergeist manifestation would leap out of a shadow.
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