I was grateful. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. Nobody could possibly find him now. The moment they cease to be serviceable, or become dangerous he lodges an information, and the matter's settled.
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