She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Gerald’s voice came back to her, saying that she could not hope to outwit “a man who means business”. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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