The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. But here the resemblance stopped. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. "Your gratitude will vanish with your danger. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR.
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