His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. “What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. . ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly.
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