“Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. Kneebone. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price.
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