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“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. ‘Well, this maid,’ went on Kimble eagerly, ‘and me, we gets to talking, see, and that’s how I knew he were off to this party. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam.

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