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"Sorry to interrupt," said a high-pitched voice from the doorway. "You are Mr. John Trenholme, I take it? May I come in? My name's Furneaux." "Jim, of the Royal Artillery?" demanded Trenholme angrily. "No. Charles François, of Scotland Yard." Eliza fled, completely cowed. She began to weep, in noisy gulps. "I've dud-dud-done it!" she explained to agitated curl papers. "That pup-pup-pore Mr.
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