O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. Their flitting hands were always touching. “The Widgetts,” she said. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow.
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