" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. " "I will—I will," replied Wood hastily. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Remember?’ ‘Parbleu,’ came from his still struggling victim. "If you arrest him, you must arrest me also. I am suspected of having shot the man. "Come along, Blueskin. "Well, how goes it?" he asked.
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