At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. "My father!" she whispered. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. That window there…. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions.
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