"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. I could tell it was Italian, you see. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy.
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