He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. Kicked out of there for something shady. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work.
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