Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. "Bravo," cried Sheppard, examining its contents, which proved to be a file, a chisel, two or three gimblets, and a piercer. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion.
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