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He would find that bloodless little shrimp and put him face to face with a few plain truths. He would confront that anemic Deputy-Commissioner and at least let him know what one honest man thought of him. Even when Blake stood before Copeland's brownstone-fronted house, the house that seemed to wear a mask of staid discretion in every drawn blind and gloomy story, no hesitation came to him.
But he nursed to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own inner reserves. "I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought to be enough!" The unpretentious, brownstone-fronted home of Deputy Copeland was visited, late that night, by a woman.
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