Then he had gone away. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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