"Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. When he finally telegraphed his startling information to Hong-Kong, it was too late for O'Higgins to act. ‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse. Wood the carpenter. It has all been a mistake. The clock struck half-past ten.
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