The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins.
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