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"Well, good night, Mr. "Judging from what you tell me, I've no doubt he's the illegitimate offspring of some handsome, but lowborn profligate; in which case, he'll neither have name, nor wealth for his inheritance. ’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. “That’s. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur. "But never mind who, or what I am. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity.
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