A chill trickled down my spine. He had shed his long black leather duster in favor of a short embroidered waistcoat and matching vest with at flat bri...med creamed straw hat. Panamanian was my guess. ‘Hello there,’ I said with as much cheerfulness as I could muster. ‘Are you thinking of sampling the breakfast, too?’ His gaze passed over and through me as if he didn’t have strength to focus and certainly not to answer. Then as if he thought better of not speaking to me, he did reply after. But in such a situation a single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I am in the hands of the brigands of whom Albert de Morcerf spoke." His first idea was to breathe, that he might know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from "Don Quixote," the only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered."No," he cried, "they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed me!" and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were. More

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