They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. “Lucy! You found me! I was just about to sleep some of those rum and Cokes off like the pig I am. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose.
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