“Then you—you will?” A long pause. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. His glasses were gone. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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