"She has fallen into the villain's hands. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom. He’s dead. "A hundred pounds if you do it quickly. "The gentleman under the table," she answered. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. Now, I'll be getting along. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins.
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