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In spite of the sergeant's assurance, Gustave never felt comfortable in the officer's presence. Horrocks moved off in search of the white hut, while the Breed, with furtive eyes, watched his progress. There was no difficulty in locating the shack in that colony of grime. Even in the darkness the gleaming white of the ex-spy's abode stood out prominently.
His collar, duly charged with Jean's letter, was tied in the bundle along with the ex-spy's clothes, and would be put upon him after the moorland winds had dried the mane of hair about his neck. "To Jean you hear, Whitefoot to Jean!" And Whitefoot leaped up to lick Stair's face in token of complete understanding. It was not a long swim, and the pair took the water at the very height of the tide.
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