As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night.
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