Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. She attacked his hair resolutely. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world.
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