The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Why do you not go away?’ ‘Yes, do go away,’ begged Gerald. Your name. Howard Spurlock. The pistol fell to the floor. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. "Another time," replied the thief-taker, evasively.
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