That was supposed to be Madame Valade. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. . ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man.
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