The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. But I will not believe you.
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