He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. The man was dangerous. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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