From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. After a while he spoke again. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Something is feeding upon them.
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