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One morning in early June John found in the mail a letter for Judge Trent, which he passed across to the other desk, unopened. "'M, h'm," commented the judge, taking it, "another hymn of praise from Sylvia, I suppose." He regarded the envelope meditatively. "That girl has worked well, Dunham." "The Keenes say so," returned John. "They're greatly interested in her."

Seven Sachs had to take the greatest pains to keep the muscles of his face in strict order. The slightest laxity with them and he would have been involved in another and more serious suffocation. "No," said Carlo Trent, "'The Muses' Theatre' is the only possible title. There is money in the poetical drama."

And I saw it only for a flash. The car went on, gathering speed, and as it went, my brain, suddenly purged of the vapours of doubt and perplexity, was as busy as the throbbing engine before my feet. I knew. 'You say something in that manuscript of yours, Mr Trent, about the swift automatic way in which one's ideas arrange themselves about some new illuminating thought. It is quite true.

"Have been dozens of times, am not," returned Dunham, with the smile that his employer liked. "Just so, just so," the latter answered quickly. "We change. Read First Corinthians, seventh chapter, and if you take Paul's advice and don't pass the Rubicon, then you 'll be free to change as often as you please." Dunham looked up again. "Are you a Bible student, Judge Trent?"

"If I were that man," he remarked smiling, "I will answer for it that you could." "You! But then you are only a boy, you have nothing to conceal, and you are partial to me, aren't you? No, the man whom I want to influence is a very different sort of person. It is Scarlett Trent." He frowned heavily. "A boor," he said. "What have you to do with him? The less the better I should say."

He means no doubt the Council of Trent. Grotius must have supposed that the Church could not err, when he wrote , "The Bishops of Rome may be in an error, but they cannot long remain, in it, if they adhere to the universal Church."

"I have two," smiled Trent, "but I am afraid I can spare only one. Lieutenant Bowers, Ensign Darrin. Hop aboard, Darrin!" In a twinkling Ensign Dave had shaken hands with the birdman, adding: "At your orders, sir!" Then Dave stepped nimbly up to the platform. "Take a seat beside me, with your field-glasses ready. Here's your field note-book."

How many fellows are there in Evans' dormitory?" "I don't know." "Cut along and find out." The detective reluctantly trudged off once more. "Well?" said Scott, on his return. "Seven," said Pillingshot. "Counting Evans." "We needn't count Evans. If he's ass enough to steal his own quids, he deserves to lose them. Who are the other six?" "There's Trent. He's prefect." "The Napoleon of Crime.

But at that time gardening was not a popular art in any part of England; in the north it is not yet. Noblemen and gentlemen may have beautiful gardens; but farmers and day-labourers care little for them north of the Trent, which is all I can answer for.

He began to talk, half-humorously, and little by little, as he went on, she forgot her fears, even her feeling of strangeness, and fell completely under the spell of his power. "My name is Ned Trent," he told her, "and I am from Quebec. I am a woods runner. I have journeyed far. I have been to the uttermost ends of the North, even up beyond the Hills of Silence."