. ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation.
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