He shook his head. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. I didn’t know. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked. Only an undermaid I was then.
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