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Up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a Mr. Quiller foxy Quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage. There was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb.
Old Quiller was sucking tobacco ruminatively, his fit of loquacity over. Merefleet rose. "Well, I am glad to have seen you, Quiller," he said, patting the old man's shoulder with a kindly hand. "I must come in again. You and I are old friends, you know, and old comrades, too. Good-bye!" Quiller looked at him rather vacantly. The fire of life was sinking low in his veins.
We knew every part of the horse as a man knows his face, and we knew every strap and buckle. Ump sat on his mare, waiting until we should be ready, kicking his stirrups with impatience, but his tongue, strangely enough, quiet. He turned his mare across the road before us when we were in our saddles. "Jud," he said, "don't go off half-cocked. An' if there's hell raised, look out for Quiller.
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