He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. ” She said bitterly. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. I'm glad to recognise you.
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