’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Mr. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. "Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or Blueskin, I think he's called. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. Go back at once, please. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself.
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