Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone.
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