A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. “It was perhaps my fault. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. Never any doubt of it. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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