The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. It is what I have done.
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