" The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. " The Wastrel laughed. Simply. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. But I will disappoint you. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. “Then I don’t take this as final. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. ” She assented gently. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. ” “It might become one,” he answered. God knows how you did it.
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