‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. Easy enough to look as if one rides away. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. CHAPTER XX.
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