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Pinkerton, A. Frank [pseud.]

"Or, The Crime of the Midnight Express"

"
"Why didn't you send 'em up?" and the woman laughed in a way that
revealed her ragged teeth and unwholesome gums.
"They'll be back soon 'nough," answered the man. "I've an idee they
mean mischief. Better you go below and see 'em when they do come."
"All right."
About an hour after darkness had settled, while Madge Scarlet sat in
the lower room, the one in which we have so many times met her, the
door was unceremoniously opened, and a man crossed the threshold.
An old man he was, with bent form and white hair, a hump disfiguring
his shoulder, his trembling right hand resting on the top of a cane.
"Good evening, mistress."
The old man, who had closed the door sharply to behind him, sank to a
rickety chair as he uttered the greeting.
"I don't know you," retorted Madge Scarlet sharply. "Haven't you got
into the wrong house?"
"Well, I dunno," whined the man in a sharp falsetto voice. "I reckon
if you're Mistress Scarlet, you're the one I'm to see."
"I'm not ashamed to own to the name, old man. Let's have your business
at once."
"I'm pretty much broke up since I came out of the bastile," said the
old man. "'Taint jest the place for a gentleman, I can tell you that.


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