Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. Wood, leaping from the bed. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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