" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Forgive me?” She pleaded. "One of us has got to die," he panted. We’ll have Trodger check it out later. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. When he’s found out where she’s staying, I’ll have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think.
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