"The gentleman under the table," she answered. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. Covering his face with a crape mask, and taking the candle from his associate, Jack entered the room; and, pistol in hand, stepped up to the bed, and approached the light to the eyes of the sleepers. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. The word of a Chinaman; he had given it, so he must abide. Wait a moment. And let us go on with our evening.
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