J. Archibald McKackney
and tried to fight my way along the embankment. The gusty wind veered suddenly and drove a deadly sheet of flame between me and the box. Driven back I watched the greedy fire lick around the prize I sought. Dimly I could see Pillsover reeling back beaten, with his face in his hands. Baffled, he and I watched the precious shipment burst into flames.
Presently a charred bit of paper fluttered past me. I clutched it, and my fingers closed on a bit of smoking parchment. I sniffed it eagerly, and detected the odor of burning hair. There was no doubt that the Royal Whisker had perished on this imposing pyre.
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