It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter.
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