"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. Fast asleep, he is. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. I'm not particular what or where. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming.
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