"It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. ‘I doubt it. ” “Do you drink blood?” He stood up. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full.
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