As the night advanced, Mr. ‘Sir?’ Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “No. We just want to ask her a few questions about an old murder case. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure.
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