All my life I've had to fight human wolves to hold what I have. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. What was his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was burning. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces.
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