Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. What a wonderful world it is!" Music. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared.
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