The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. He recognized the face instantly.
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