“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Heard of your last escape. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. Recovering herself, Melusine tucked the weapons out of sight, down into the deep holsters hidden under the petticoat of her riding habit, and went back into the house where Martha awaited her in some impatience.
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