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The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great care and humility into the room.
The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number. "Why don't you mend it?" he inquired, at last. "Mend it?" shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. "Why don't you?" "I think I could," said Mr. Drill, slowly; "give me half an hour in the kitchen and I'll try." "Have as long as you like," said Mr. Gunnill.
"When I say that I know who did it," he said, slowly, "I mean that I have my suspicions." "Don't call on me as a witness, that's all, continued Mr. Drill." "Ah," said Mr. Drill, "that's a very different thing." "Nothing like the same," said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a glass of ale. Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.
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