. ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. “Eight, Cavendish Square. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,—if, indeed it does not disable him altogether. . ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. Find your man, that’s the rule. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling. Can you lend me some stuff?” “You ARE a chap!” said Constance, and warmed only slowly from the idea of dissuasion to the idea of help.
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