“Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. That was an admission all right. Wood, however, made known his presence to the individual by laying his hand upon his shoulder. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. I won't dig their graves with my nails.
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