It was now a quarter past twelve. Nuns, I mean. 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. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. " "Waste not another word with him, Thames," cried Jack. ‘I think it is better if I hold the pistol.
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