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Farnol, Jeffery, 1878-1952

"The Definite Object A Romance of New York"


All at once he started and glanced swiftly around, his lounging attitude
changing to one of watchful alertness, for he had heard a sound that
drew rapidly nearer--the hiss and pant of breath drawn in quick gasps.
Silently he arose and turned to see the curtains swing apart and a
shapeless something stagger forward and fall heavily. Then he reached
out to the switch beside the hearth, and the room was flooded with
brilliant light; the figure kneeling just inside the swaying curtains
uttered a strangled cry and threw up a hand before his face, a hand dark
with spattering blood.
"Oh, Geoff--oh, Geoff!" panted Spike, "I ain't--come thievin' this
time--honest t' God, I ain't!"
"Why, you're hurt--what's the matter?"
"They see me down th' road as I came an' shot me, but this ain't
nothin'. Out th' lights, Geoff--out 'em--quick!"
But Ravenslee had crossed the room, had seized the lad's arm, and was
examining the ugly graze that bled so freely.
"That ain't nothin'--douse th' lights, Geoff--out 'em quick. Bud's
coming here close behind--Bud an' Heine--they mean t' plug you--oh, put
out th' lights--"
Instinctively Ravenslee turned, but even as he did so Spike uttered a
hoarse cry.


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