That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. I’ve made up my mind. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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