CHAPTER XXX.

Well might Trale stare at Neville with surprise and alarm. The great strong man was trembling like a leaf; the perspiration stood in big drops upon his forehead. “Good Lord, Mr. Neville, what is it?” demanded Trale. Neville looked at him vacantly. “That voice! Don’t you hear?” he said. “Yes, beautiful, isn’t it?” said Trale. “That’s the great opera singer all London’s mad about.” “What? No! That is Sylvia’s voice! I should know it among a thousand. It is hers; let me go!” for Trale had got hold of him, half fearful…