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Page 29

| Sasha and began informing everyone that the pub was going to be closed for a while. The drinkers and their clinging women began to leave, but not without first fussing about it. To Ashton's chagrin, Stanford was the last at the bar. He was slowly sipping on a drink, looking over the rim of the mug at Ashton. |

| "Damn it, I said clear out," Ashton said, resting his palms against the top of the counter. He leaned into Stanford's face, now almost certain that he had been recognized. He waited to see exactly what the con man had on his mind. |

| Stanford lowered the mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then shoved the mug toward Ashton. "Have an ale, mate?" he taunted. He placed two shillings on the counter. "Or do you prefer whiskey?" |

| "If I wanted a drink, I sure as hell wouldn't share it with you," Ashton said in a low hiss. "I'm not one of your suckers, Sidwell. Now move on." |

| "So you've heard of me, eh?" Stanford said slyly. "You know what my game is, eh?" |

| "Who doesn't?" Ashton challenged. |

| "Now, mate, can you blame me for being good at my trade?" Stanford boasted, his eyes gleaming. "After all, if somebody loses some money here and there, well, it's no worse losing it to me than losing it to somebody else." |

| Ashton's jaw tightened. "Take a look around you, mate," he grumbled. "Do you see anyone left for you to fleece?" He placed a hand on one of his revolvers. "Most certainly not me." His eyes became dark squints. ''And for damn certain not Sasha." |

| "I hear tell you are the owner of this pub and that |

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