“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas.
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