“You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. He wanted her named Mary. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.
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