" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. "I have nothing to forgive. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know.
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