"Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. What were your findings?” Lucy asked. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. Eight per cent. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean.
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