Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. They had not proceeded far when a low moan was heard. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. Winter came at the manor. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. Dump, made an impression on some one outside; for not long after the constable departed, Jack heard a tap at the door, and getting up at the summons, he perceived the tube of a pipe inserted between the bars.
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