. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. I didn't mean it. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. They have retired. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. .
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