"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly.
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