He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. Strike the gag, Blueskin. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous.
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