My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out.
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