“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. I want to boast myself. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly.
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