Suddenly he understood what had happened. "A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. On searching the coat, he found, amongst other matters, a mask, a key, and a pocket-book.
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