He was a stranger. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. White, my landlady, believes his story. I wish that it worked. It was a pity people had to eat food. ‘You have something more to tell me?’ Jack grinned.
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