Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. Crocodile Tears.
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