" "What for?" demanded the turnkey. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. There is a small yewtree west of the church. Surely our advice would have been worth having, at any rate.
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