First, look at this glove. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered.
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