“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting.
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