’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. He lifted her from the floor. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery.
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