Suspicion was in his face. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "I vent to de New Prish'n, and on wishitin' his shel vid de turnkey, vot should ve find but de shains on de ground, de vinder broken, and Jack and Agevorth Besh gone. . One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him.
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