He glanced up. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped.
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