‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Now what I want you to feel is this. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Murder, I say, has been done! Another murder will be committed if you don't prevent it.
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