And then amusement crept into Alderley’s chest and he let his pistol hand fall. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “But perhaps I want to confess them. Get a license—just an idea of mine.
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