” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried.
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