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He looked hard at Barrant as if for some confirmatory expression of surprise at this remarkable accession to the wagonette's fares. He waited so long that Barrant felt called upon to say something. "Who was your fellow passenger last night?" "Now you're asking me a question which takes a bit of answerin'," replied Mr. Portgartha. "'Twas like this.
Portgartha, they're ever so much more grand than Cornwall. Well, while the war was on I did see the Canaries and Bay of Naples at Government's expense on a minesweeper, and they're not a patch on the Cornwall coast. There's nathin' to beat it in the world." "It's good, is it?" said Barrant, with his accustomed affability to strangers. "If I want to see any of it I'll get you to show me round."
Portgartha, laying an impressive hand on his companion's knee, "but for what happened at Flint House last night." "What's that got to do with it?" In his quickened interest Barrant vainly strove to make his voice appear calm. "Because the young womon must have coome from Flint House." Barrant scrutinized his companion sharply in the dim light. "Why do you think so?" he asked.
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