What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. He was like a man beside himself. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. Sir John hesitated, and then continued.
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