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It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. “My darling!” he said, clasping her resolutely in his arms, “my dearest!” “Mr.
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