About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. But it was her proof. “Yes. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed. Taking off his stockings, he then drew up the basils as far as he was able, and tied the fragments of the broken chain to his legs, to prevent them from clanking, and impeding his future exertions. I didn’t understand before that letter. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room.
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