Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. He would have to make sure of her silence. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. Fell to sin, did Martha. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it.
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