At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. He frowned. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. " "Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff.
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