" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. ’ ‘But she must have known I’d longed to hear of you. "Fold it … under the pillow.
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