But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. . Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. . At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend.
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