The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. Don’t leave me. " Without waiting for a reply, but darting a malevolent look at the prisoner, he quitted the cell, the door of which was instantly double-locked and bolted. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat.
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