Vorsack rose from the table and departed for the bathroom, mumbling something about a Tylenol. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. I killed him, Nigel. If you can do any good with him, it's more than we can. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone.
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