He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand.
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