"I beg pardon, Sir," replied Jack, with the accent and manner of the janizary; "I was betrayed into the exclamation by my surprise that anything in which Sir Rowland Trenchard was interested could have reference to so humble a person as Mrs. “Hey, Mike. He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. But one must disguise oneself. What CAN she put before that?” His voice began to rise.
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