" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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