“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “—but this cannot be.
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