"Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. "Dying, Sir Rowland. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. CHAPTER XXXII. But, here they are. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. .
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