“Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “One would think I had said nothing about the matter. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. ‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. I’m in this apartment and looking for work because—Well, what else can I do, when my father practically locks me up?” “I know,” said Mr.
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