The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no more. “Yes. " "But, goodness me, the hotel will take care of him! Why not? They sold him the poison. . ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. Besides, those things are deadly. " "Ay, and there's my liver. . "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him.
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