Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. E. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window.
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