CHAPTER IX. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. "Got the rooms mixed.
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