Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country.
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