"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. "I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. Advancing with a slow firm step to the stone-block he placed his left foot upon it, drew himself up to his full height, and fixed a look so stern upon Jonathan, that the thief-taker quailed before it. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance.
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