He suspected a trap. Waving a white flag, naturally. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. "You hear that," cried Mrs. Long ago.
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