‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser. And the hunter home from the hill. He died in the war. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead.
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