Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. When the prisoner was brought into this room, he was again questioned; but, continuing contumacious, preparations were made for inflicting the torture. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. ‘She’s gone. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened.
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