Two shots were fired at him by Jonathan; one of which passed through his hat, and the other through the fleshy part of his arm; but he made good his retreat. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in.
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