He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. “You did a great job on my concerto today. Is it an old ring?” he asked, returning it. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. Having traced the footsteps to the wall, and perceiving no outlet, Blueskin elevated the lamp, and discovered marks of bloody fingers on the boards.
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