The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. ’ Hilary’s gaze was raking the room. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. “I want two words—with Miss Pellissier alone,” Hill pleaded. Kneebone, addressing his comely attendant; "put a few more plates on the table, and bring up whatever there is in the larder. I saw him lying on the footway. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon.
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