My death, probably. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world.
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