The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. But there was a face pressed to the glass. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin.
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