" "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. \"Just fine, John. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf.
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