It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. Just as he got on the roof of the prison, St. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Open the window, Thames, and call for assistance. "On Friday," he replied.
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