’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. ‘Leave it, imbecile. These were the Master's body-guard. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. “But, dear, think! He is your father. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines.
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