If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin. Mr. . . ” “It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber.
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