"What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. But it was only six-thirty. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Corporation.
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