“Well,” she admitted. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. "You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim smile. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door.
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