It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Earles drew out his cheque book. “Sir John is not at all that sort. You can go for a walk with Lucy. But I will never—never return.
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